“I know, babe. Look, my infatuation with Mr. Fox is something to pass the time with. I don’t have dreams like you do, Elle,” Lauren explains as her face falls.
“What do you mean you don’t have dreams?”
Lauren shrugs her shoulders. “I could work with my parents at the modeling agency if I wanted to, but how can I compete with Reed and Juliette … the oh-so-perfect ones,” she says, rolling her eyes over her siblings.
“Do you want to work at the agency?” I ask.
“No!” she replies, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I want to do. Everyone else is doing well for themselves. Reed’s running the New York branch of the agency, and Juliette’s running Paris. Lennox is everywhere on the social pages. He’s transitioning from modeling to acting, and then there’s Ines, who’s killing it as a DJ. Then there’s me. What do I do great? Besides blow jobs …”
I had no idea Lauren felt this way. She’s never voiced any of these concerns with me before. “Oh, babe, don’t put yourself down like that,” I say, hating that she thinks so little of herself. She’s more than her blow job skills. I rush around the kitchen island and wrap my arms around her tightly. “I love you, Loz. I think you’re the bestest friend I could ever have asked for. You have been nothing but supportive of me in helping me reach my dreams. You saved me after school when my family turned their backs on me. Whatever you want to do, I’ll support you.”
Lauren hugs me back tightly. “That’s the thing … I don’t know what I want. At twenty-five, you’d think I’d have my shit sorted, right?” She chuckles against my skin.
“You don’t have to figure it all out just yet. There’s time,” I tell her.
“I’m lucky I have a trust fund to fall back on.” She sighs.
“You’re more than the sum of that fund,” I tell her before a memory filters into my mind of a drunken conversation we had years ago, bubbling to the surface. “Not sure if you remember a conversation we had one night, and you confessed to me your dream would be to buy a house in the country and live a simple life.”
Lauren’s eyes widen as I tell her about the memory. “Oh my god, I remember that. Can’t believe I said that out loud.” She chuckles.
“Is that something you want to do?” I ask, curious now why she would hide this part of her away from us all.
“I know everyone sees me as this crazy party girl, and I am, but it feels like a character I play. People gravitate toward that persona because if I showed them thereal Lauren,maybe they wouldn’t like it so much,” she confesses.
Oh, I had no idea she felt like this.
“Why have you never told me?”
“I don’t know. I guess I was worried you’d think it crazy.”
“Babe, I stayed up all night baking hundreds of sweets because I can’t stop thinking about a man I can’t have. Who’s the crazy one in this house?” I joke with her. “You know I’m here for you?”
“I know you are. And I love you,” she says, squeezing my hand. “For the moment, I’m happy helping you achieve your dreams while I try to figure out mine.” I give Lauren another hug because I’m so proud of her for finally telling me her worries.
“You are my official taste tester, and thatisaseriousjob,” I say, grinning at her.
“Now that I can get behind.” She chuckles, the dark cloud above her disappearing.
“I think I’m going to go for a run to clear this mind of mine,” I tell her.
“Go you. I’m allergic to running, so I’m going to stay here. I think it’s best I test some more of these treats, you know … for quality control. I take my job seriously.” She grins, which has me chuckling.
I give her a wave and head upstairs to get changed into my active wear.
Thankfully, Hyde Park isn’t far from Lauren’s house, and today I’m going to push myself and do the Kensington Palace jog, which is a good four miles around the park. It’s a crisp end of Autumn morning, but thankfully, there’s nothing but blue sky today as I head off.
As soon as I take off, my mind wanders to Mr. King.
Why am I letting this man consume my thoughts like this?Yes, he is hot and may have whispered dirty words in my ear while pinning me to the door, but plenty of other men over the years have done equally dirty things to me, but they’ve never lingered. My mind better not be falling for that broken-man bullshit those other women fall for. I am not the woman to put Mr. King back together again after having his heart broken. I have enough of my own baggage to deal with.
I push myself to the limit—my body is exhausted, my muscles ache, I’m drenched in sweat—but my mind is clearer after my run. I know what I’ve got to do now and that is to put Mr. King back into the client box, especially as I’ll be moving halfway across the world in a couple of months.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t hear someone shouting, “Watch out,” until a soccer ball hits me square in the head and knocks me on my ass in the grass. I see stars for a couple of moments, wondering what the hell happened.
“Shit, I’m so sorry. I thought you heard me call out,” the deep voice yells. “Elle?”
I look up, and standing before me, dressed in a white T-shirt that’s drenched in sweat and clinging to his well-defined body, showing off every taut muscle, is the one man I’m trying to forget.