Chapter One #2
Bo shook her head. “No. Geoffrey made it very clear to me that when he died, his nephew was to have the house.”
Willa thought for a moment. “So, maybe he’s not leaving you the house, but something else? He was Sir Geoffrey, right? He must have had more than his home to his fancy name.”
Bo shrugged. “He was a Conservative politician, not a businessman. I don’t think there’s any money.
Well, none left, at any rate. He spent most of his money searching for .
. .” Bo hesitated, suddenly uncertain. In her mind, she knew Geoffrey was dead.
She knew whatever stories he’d told her in the last few years of his life were no longer secrets she needed to keep.
Still, she hesitated to reveal them. Geoffrey might be dead, but his confidence in her while living had been unshaken, and she had no desire to break it now.
So instead, she shook her head. “There’s no money. ”
“Hmm.” Willa looked puzzled. “Why do you think you’re being called into this meeting then?”
“Geoffrey was always kind to me. I’ve been living here on an annual lease, and when Geoffrey died, there was still time left on it.
They said I could stay in exchange for continuing to work on the garden and keeping the house clean,” Bo explained.
“If I’m honest, I think I’m being called in to be given my notice.
They’ll want me out of here before the new owner inherits.
” She paused as an uncomfortable thought struck her.
“Or maybe the new owner has already inherited and wants me out of the way.”
“Geoffrey’s nephew?”
“Yes. Geoffrey’s nephew.”
“The one you shagged last summer,” Willa added mischievously, and Bo groaned.
“Yes. The one I shagged last summer.” She gave Willa a look. “Remind me not to talk to you about that kind of stuff anymore.”
“I’m your best friend. Of course you’re going to keep telling me about that kind of stuff.” Willa sat back, and Bo could tell she was thinking. “You know, maybe he won’t want you out of the way. If you’ve had sex once already . . .”
Bo shook her head, shutting down that train of thought immediately. “No. It was a one-time thing, trust me. It happened because it was 3 a.m., hot and neither one of us had anything else to do. I got the distinct feeling I’m not his type, and he’s definitely not my usual type either.”
“Not your type?”
Bo thought for a moment. When she remembered Max, it was the feelings he’d elicited in her body she recalled first. The coiling tension in her belly, the tightness of her skin, the way her body had seemingly ached to be filled by him and him alone.
When he’d first slid inside her, relief had washed over her, her need for him fleetingly sated by the presence of him at the core of her desire.
He’d begun to move though, his movements precise, hard and fast, and with each thrust her need had returned, until she’d been a panting mess beneath him.
Yes, when Bo remembered Max, it was the image of her naked body wrapped around his like a vine, gasping her pleasure into his ear, which struck her first. She never really put him, his looks or his personality into that equation.
“Not my type,” she said again, more slowly. “For one thing, he wasn’t really, well, you know I like my men to be tall and . . . and I guess—”
“You like a hot piece of beef,” Willa cut in, saving Bo the trouble of talking it through. “You forget how many of your ex-boyfriends I’ve met. They were all the same. Tall, beefy, chiselled . . . and completely devoid of personality. Like Oliver.” Willa wrinkled her nose. “He was the worst.”
“Hey!” Bo protested, but Willa only shrugged.
“It’s the truth. He was the worst, and the rest weren’t much better. They’re all good-looking, well-cut idiots in muscle tees, Bo.”
Bo flushed a dull red. “Not all of them.”
“The ones I met? Yes, they were.”
Bo opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again.
Willa wasn’t wrong. Not about Oliver, and not about the others either.
Her cheeks burned even hotter with mortification when she realized just how predictable her usual ‘type’ was.
Broad shoulders, a strong jaw, perfect hair.
Men who looked like they belonged on the cover of a fitness magazine with headlines about whey powder and macro-nutrients printed above their perfect faces.
Men who treated sex like cardio and conversation like the cool down.
She hated that her mother would have approved of them all.
Beauty had always been a kind of currency in her mother’s world, something to be displayed, maintained and measured against others.
Bo had grown up steeped in it, with constant lessons on how to sit, smile and sparkle.
Her job was to be noticed and admired. Somewhere along the way, Bo had mistaken that attention for affection, and attraction as equalling worth.
Somewhere along the way, she’d learned to chase only the men her mother would approve of.
The ones who looked good on her arm, even if they never really saw her.
Even if she wasn’t attracted to them in the first place.
“Let me get this straight,” Willa carried on in Bo’s silence. “You’re saying this nephew of Sir Geoffrey, this Mr 3 a.m. . . . you’re saying he wasn’t good-looking but brainless?”
“He wasn’t brainless. Definitely not,” Bo replied without faltering. Max had spoken with such self-assured confidence that she’d instinctively known he was clever.
“Good-looking though?”
Bo chewed on her lip. “Well . . .”
“Come on, Bo, you slept with him. You must know whether he’s good-looking or not.”
Bo only frowned though.
“What was he out of ten?” Willa persisted.
“Out of ten?”
“Yeah. If you had to score him, what would he be?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never . . . never, well, scored men like that before.
” Bo wasn’t sure how comfortable she was with this.
Max hadn’t been her type, sure, but nor had he been unattractive to her.
If he had been, she certainly wouldn’t have climaxed as hard as she had as many times as she did with him.
“Everyone does it,” Willa assured her. “It’s easy. Look, I’ll help you. You start at ten and rank downwards from there.”
“Rank downwards? Are you serious?”
“Yes,” Willa replied easily. “When it comes to men, I’m always serious.”
“Well, what’s a ten then?” Bo asked with a frown. “I can’t rank anyone downwards if I don’t know what I’m going downwards from.”
“Oh.” Willa thought for a moment. “Okay. Let’s say a ten is like a combination of Jacob Elordi in his Saltburn era and Jinu from KPop Demon Hunters.”
“KPop Demon Hunters?” Bo raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Hey, don’t judge me. The heart wants what it wants,” Willa replied with a grin. “So, where did this Mr 3 a.m. rank then?”
“Against a singing cartoon demon?”
“It doesn’t have to be a cartoon, demon or otherwise.
A ten just represents your ideal, most attractive man.
I have this one friend who has Harry Styles as her ten; she likes that boyish, cheeky, tight jeans vibe he has going on.
And then I have this other friend who has Steven Spielberg circa 1982 as her ten. ”
“That’s slightly niche.”
“Don’t get me started. She has a replica E.T. finger that glows when pressed. God knows what she does with it, but I can never watch that movie again.” Willa prodded Bo in the shoulder. “So, spill. This Mr 3 a.m. . . . Where are you putting him?”
Bo thought for a moment. Max, with his grey eyes, thick dark-blond hair and wide lips was nowhere near a ten.
Her last boyfriend, Oliver, she considered more attractive, even though his personality — or lack of one — left a lot to be desired, as had his wandering eye.
Still, looks-wise he’d been a solid five, maybe even a six. So, where did that leave Max?
“A two,” she said softly, without really thinking it out. “He’s a two.”
“A two?” Willa repeated, her jaw dropping. “I’m sorry, did you just say a two?”
“Well, I don’t know, I’ve never really—” Bo started to reply, regretting her hasty words, but Willa had already stood, stretching out her delicate legs.
“A two?!” she repeated again. “You mean to tell me that you, Bo Armstrong, who never shagged anyone who didn’t have bulging biceps and an ass you could sink your teeth into had sex with a man you describe as a mere two? Spielberg circa 1982 is more attractive than a two, Bo.”
Bo flushed. “Look, this isn’t something I normally do, okay? Grading men on their looks . . . it feels wrong.”
“Fine, fine, fine,” Willa replied, pulling the hair tie from her ponytail and shaking out her long, dark hair. “Men do it to us all the time though, you get that, right? I’ve already appeared on about a hundred online sites being ranked by my looks.”
“Yeah, but you’re famous. Not that being famous makes it any better,” Bo argued, however, Willa only shrugged.
“Fair. But come on, Bo, do you honestly think your Mr Two out of Ten at 3 a.m. didn’t boast about you to his friends after you slept with him? I told you, men do it all the time.”
“I don’t think so. I already told you; I don’t think I’m his type.”
“Type? You’re an Australian five eight blonde with an hourglass figure to die for. Type doesn’t matter when you look like you do. Trust me on this one, he told all his friends about you.”
“If he has any,” Bo returned, chewing on her lip. “He was . . . a little abrasive, if I’m totally honest. Not the most pleasant man I’ve ever met.”
“An abrasive and unpleasant two?” Willa blinked at her. “Why the fuck did you fuck him then?”
Bo opened her mouth to reply before closing it again abruptly.
She couldn’t tell Willa about how Max’s sultry words, sarcastic endearments and strong-looking fingers had rendered her body so close to jelly she’d been like a pliant doll in his arms. “I don’t know,” she finally said, her cheeks still red.
“It was hot, he was there, it just happened.”