Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
HIM
London England,
February 2022
(Three Months Later)
Jules
The delectable scent of centifolia roses and vanilla announces Reena’s presence behind me before she speaks. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she shouts to be heard over the music. I turn, happy as hell to see her, and pull her into a hug. “I’ve been looking for you. I can’t believe how many people are here.”
When she told me she was renting out this entire restaurant at the top of the OXO tower, I imagined a few tables of good friends, having dinner and raising a toast.
The only seating is outside on the balconies that ring the entire floor of this building and the three stools in front the bar. Otherwise, it’s standing room only. And despite the pretty uninspired music the DJ’s got on, the dance floor is packed.
“I’m leaving for good this time. I had to go out in style.” She places a kiss on each of my cheeks and nods at the glass of clear liquid on the bar in front of me. “That better be filled with gin or vodka and tonic and not just tonic…”
I raise my glass to her nose for inspection. She sniffs and smiles approvingly at the distinct effervescent aroma of vodka and tonic. “Good girl,” she says and hops up on the barstool next to me. “God, my feet are killing me.”
“Why do you think I’m sitting?” I glance down at my black stilettos with disdain. I’ve had them on all day because I came here straight from work. But my trainers are in my rucksack, and I’ll put them on the second I walk out of here.
“You look amazing, babe.” She gives me a once-over and nods in approval. “I will never understand how you are single.”
I nudge her slim hip with my more ample one and tut in mock disapproval. “I’ve got two jobs, candle orders to fill, and zero interest in relationships.”
She pulls away, her large brown eyes twinkling with mischief. “What’s any of that got to do with finding someone who’ll eat your ass with gusto before he busts your pussy wide open?”
Her explicit description draws a laugh that’s born of humor but also shock and embarrassment.
She scrunches her face into one of speculative amusement and narrows her eyes at me. “Jules, if you didn’t look the way you do, and I didn’t know all the men and women who lust after you at the Inn, I’d swear you’d never been with anyone before.”
My face heats with a blush she can’t see, but that she clearly senses. She lets go of me and steps away as if my body has suddenly caught fire. “Are you a virgin ?” She draws back and gawks, mouth wide open. Despite the noise in the room, I glance around to make sure no one heard her. “Shhh.”
“Oh my God, you are.” She stares at me in amazed wonder.
“So what?” I shrug and try to keep the defensiveness out of my voice. I know it’s rare, but so is my life.
“You’re twenty-six, right? Love, it’s time ,” she declares.
“Says who?” I retort.
“I don’t plan to be a virgin forever. When I meet someone who checks my boxes, I’ll take the plunge,” I say when she keeps staring at me.
She nods, but her expression is full of skepticism. “What are your boxes?”
“Attractive, patient, unavailable.”
“Unavailable?” Confusion furrows her brow.
I flash a jaunty smile. “Unavailability is the modern thinking woman’s catnip.”
“So you say…” She scoffs and glances around the room. “Speaking of unavailable, I invited Omar and told him to bring some friends, but I’m sure he won’t. He’s as averse to making friends as you are.”
I try to stifle my gasp at the mention of his name, and a chunk of ice slides down my throat. Reena pounds my back when I start coughing. “I’m okay.” I hold a hand up to stop her when I can talk again. “You were saying?”
“That it’s a shame Omar doesn’t have any friends I can introduce you to.” I don’t know why I haven’t told Reena that I, sort of, already know him and have had a crush the size of Australia on him for months now.
“So are you very good friends?”
“The best of friends,” she says with a waggle of her brows. “And he comes with all the benefits. Stamina, a nice thick dick, and a really, really talented tongue.”
“So you’re…dating?” I keep the disappointment out of my voice.
She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Omar doesn’t date. He fucks and forgets.”
“Wow. And that’s okay for you?”
“There was a time, when Apollo had just started dating Graham, when it wasn’t.” Apollo is her American best friend who just happens to be married to one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen. Her husband, Graham.
“I swore up and down I was going to be the one to tame Omar and marry him. And then I found out he’s untamable and not at all interested in meeting the parents. Which was actually a relief because my parents have sworn to disown me if I bring home a man who is not Indian and doesn’t have at least a master’s degree. They could accept one without the other, but not without both.”
I wrinkle my nose in disbelief. “That can’t be true. I’ve met your parents. They are both so thoroughly modern.”
“It’s a mirage—they’re strict traditionalists when it comes to things like blending family lines. It’s antiquated. But Omar and I would never have worked anyway. He’s allergic to commitment and very set in his ways.”
I frown at her.“Is there anything you like about him besides his prowess in bed?”
“Oh, yes. He’s a fantastic person,” she answers without hesitation. “And when he calls you his friend, he means it. He may be a romantic relationship commitment-phobe, but he’s the most loyal friend I’ve ever had. He’ll tell you how it is, especially when it really matters. He’s gone all the time but manages to show up whenever you need him. And once he knows what you need, want, and crave, if it’s in his power to, he’ll make sure you always have it. And unlike most men, you never have to tell him anything twice. I adore him, and I can’t imagine anyone knowing him well and not feeling the same way.”
“I’m jealous. I want a friend like that.”
She leans away from me in affront. “Well, what the fuck am I? Chopped liver?”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant who could be that and also be my lover.”
She scoffs. “Omar’s not a lover. He’s a one-night stand.”
“One night is all I need.”
“Oh no, honey. Yes, he’ll blow your mind. But the next day, you won’t even be a memory, and it’ll hurt. And I have a feeling you’ve had enough of that in your life.” A small smile softens her expression before she turns to scan the room again.
I suck in a deep breath at her comment and feel like she’s just seen me naked, something I haven’t allowed anyone willingly. But clearly, I’ve let my guard down around her enough that she’s seen glimpses of the shadows behind my smile. I love her even more for also knowing they weren’t up for discussion.
We met on the first day of bar school. She’s an American qualified lawyer who had taken her first degree in London and then moved to New York but came to be called to the Bar here, too. At work, the steady stream of customers saves me from conversations that threaten to linger or delve into the personal. I tried my usual tactic at the first dinner I attended at The Inner Temple. I kept my head down, speaking only when necessary and as politely as I could without encouraging further probing. But Reena was undeterred. And when we discovered our mutual love of Anime and Lynette Yiadom-Boakye’s art, that dominated most of our conversation.
I’ve made quite a few good acquaintances, but she’s a real friend.
“I’m going to miss you,” I tell her and squeeze her hand.
“Come see me!” she demands and then cranes her neck and lifts up onto her toes to scan the room. “All this talk about his sexual prowess makes me want to find him and make my last night in London really special.”
I force myself to smile through the sharp pang of jealousy at the thought of them together. It’s silly.
Omar Solomon dates women who look like Victoria’s Secret models and run billion dollar brands. And in the three months he’s been coming into my pub, I’ve never earned more than a passing glance from him.
“Well then go find him and mingle a bit before you drag him off into one of your dark corners.”
She laughs, but when her eyes come back to my face, whatever she sees there erases the humor in them. “Are you all right?”
I nod and take a long sip of my cold, bubbly drink to quench my dry throat.
Now that I know their history, I’m glad I didn’t mention my very loose acquaintance with Omar. But I hate lying to her. I shake my head to say “no” and take a deep breath.
She leans away from me with worried, wide eyes. “What in the world are you about to tell me?”
“I don’t know why I didn’t say it sooner, but Omar comes into the pub where I work three times a week. I don’t know him, but he’s not a stranger to me.”
She blinks rapidly, and her mouth falls open. “Holy shit. You like him.”
I don’t play coy or deny it. “From afar, yes. But he doesn’t even know I’m alive.”
“That can’t be true. But he’s so used to women throwing themselves at him, he’s forgotten how to make the first move.”
I force my smile wider and nod. “Yeah, maybe. But I’m not going to either. I mean, he’s like, an actual famous person. I’m just me.”
“Well, just you are amazing . The right person for you will see what I do.”
I roll my eyes and feign boredom. “And what is that?”
“You light up the fucking room without even trying. You are terribly kind and absolutely beautiful. If I wasn’t already in love with two people, I’m sure I would have fallen for you, too.” She glances down at my stilettos. “I’m surprised you haven’t chucked them already. You love to dance.”
“When the DJ plays something decent, I will.”
She scrunches her nose. “I know. It’s awful . But he’s a friend and offered. I couldn’t say no.” She presses a kiss to each of my cheeks and then glides away toward a crowd of people who cheer as she approaches.
We were each other’s date to every single one of the mandatory twelve dinners we attended in the year before we were called to the Bar. She knows me better than anyone I’ve met since I moved to London.
Having an unconquerable optimism sometimes feels like a curse. And like my thoughts conjured him, he walks through the door. I knew he’d be here, but this first glimpse of him still makes my heart skip a surprised beat.
He’s walked into the pub where I work countless times over the last three months, but I’ve never had a chance to really look at him. And I take full advantage as he crosses the room.
I can’t take my eyes off him and can’t understand why everyone else isn’t watching him, too.
He’s a walking wonder—tall, but not too tall, lean, but muscular enough that he fills out the bright bronze blazer he’s wearing over a black turtleneck. His slim-cut black trousers are tailored to hit right below his ankle, and his polished to a spit shine black Chelsea boots make his muscular legs appear to go on forever.
My dad used to say about anyone who was exceptionally good at something, “Now, that’s a break .” I didn’t know what it meant, but he said it was something one of his teachers used to say whenever any of the students did particularly well. When he called me a “break,” I knew he was paying me the highest compliment.
Omar Solomon, in every way, is a break.
The first time he walked through the doors of the pub where I work on weekends, I’d stared at him until the beer I was pulling overflowed onto my hands and snapped me out of it. His body reminded me of the yew trees that are native to Stow-on-the-Wold, where I grew up. They’re muscular, strong trees. Perfect for climbing—you never had to worry if their branches could hold your weight. There were a few ancient ones that soared so high they appeared topless. I knew they weren’t, and when my father fell asleep after lunch, I’d climb and climb, even when I was afraid of how high it was—because I knew the view from up there would be worth the risk.
Some Sunday afternoons at the pub, he sports a stubble that’s a shade darker than his dark brown hair. But tonight, he’s clean shaven. His broad, sculpted face isn’t what most would call handsome, but it’s intensely compelling. He has high cheekbones I’d kill for and highlight the shit out of if they were mine. And he’s got a strong jawline and chin that don’t need a beard to make them look that way. He wears no jewelry but a bracelet—a surprisingly delicate and feminine string of small black and white pearls that looks like it was made to be worn on his warlord-sized wrist.
In general, he always looks like he’s on the cusp of a growl. His mouth is set in a straight line that makes his upper lip appear less full than the bottom. But when he speaks, that misconception is cleared up. There’s also no hint of the dimples, so deep I could fit the tip of my finger in them, that punctuate his rare and beautiful smile.
In the dark wood paneled cavern of the pub, the color of his eyes was hard to see. But the lining of thick and dark lashes accentuated the almond shape of them. Set deep on either side of his unapologetically prominent nose, they always remind me of the wolf I saw at a conservatory in Reading when I was ten.
The animal stared at everyone like it was trying to read minds or find weaknesses. Tonight, in the overbright light of the room, his gleaming hazel irises are impossible to mistake for the brown I’d thought they’d be.
The one time we made and held eye contact was on a Saturday night two or three months ago, in the badly lit pub. His eyes narrowed, and his lips parted, and I was sure he was going to speak. But he just kept walking, and I turned back to serve my waiting punters. As far as I know, he’s never looked at me again.
And once my boss told me who he was, I understood why.
I stayed up after work that first Sunday reading everything I could about Omar Solomon—and there was a lot. He left his ten-year career as a brilliant midfielder at Chelsea Football Club in 2012 after a persistent knee injury benched him for an entire season. That same year, he joined the Los Angeles Galaxy and was more of an expensive hood ornament than an asset on the field. And off the field he modeled and starred in campaigns for colognes and watches. He started an investment company and owned nightclubs and restaurants.
At the age of 36, he graduated from the University of Houston with honors and a double major in marketing and economic development.
As if that wasn’t enough, while he was a student, he created an investment fund that invested in entrepreneurs from traditionally marginalized communities.
His Instagram account has thousands of pictures.
Since he started his account, there isn’t a week that has gone by that he hasn’t posted pictures from the fabulous places he traveled, the amazing meals he enjoyed, and selfies with the beautiful people he is always surrounded by.
The last three pictures were posted on the same day three months ago.
The first is of him with a young woman and a toddler with hazel eyes and deep dimples on her lap.
The second is of him in a black cap and gown with accents of dark red, smiling broadly and flanked by his famous best friends.
The last one is of his bare, beautifully muscled back, his head bowed, and his fingers giving the middle finger to the camera. Its caption read, I’m out .
It was nearly impossible to reconcile the extroverted playboy demigod online persona with the polite but reserved man who came into the pub to eat and watch whatever was on the tele.
The only thing about him in person that reminded me of what I’d seen in my hours of reading about him was the way he walked through the crowded pub to grab the same table in the back.
He keeps his gaze fixed on his destination, earbuds in, the world shut out. His stride is purposeful and merciless when you don’t have enough sense to move out of his way.
Just from looking, I couldn’t be sure if he was an asshole, just an introvert, or a little of both. Either way, I found the broadcast of his barbed edges refreshing. It’s nice not having to guess what people are thinking.
He cuts through the crowd of people in glamorous garb, crystal cut tumblers or fragile flutes in their wildly gesticulating hands. Yet they seem to move just as he wants them to so that he doesn’t need to turn sideways to accommodate his broad shoulders or taper his remarkably long strides.
Long strides that are bringing him straight toward me.
I barely have time to spin around before he’s right behind me.
“Scotch on the rocks,” he tells the bartender when he slides onto the empty barstool next to me. I disguise my gasp as a cough, place a hand on the bar to steady myself, and stare straight ahead.
The young man nods and grabs a glass. “We’ve got Macallan 18 for the masses, but I’ve got a bottle of Craigelachhie that might be more to your taste.”
“I don’t really care, whichever,” he responds in a voice that’s not rude but doesn’t match the adoration in the server’s. Undeterred, the young man leans forward across the bar and lowers his voice to a loud whisper. “I know you’ve been gone a while, but I’m still a huge fan, Mastermind. Can I snap a selfie?”
To my surprise, Omar doesn’t rebuff the bartender. “Only if you promise you won’t post it for a bit. No one knows I’m in London yet, and I’d like to keep it that way for just a few more weeks.”
I watched an interview from very early on in his career when he was asked about his dislike of public availabilities.
He explained that he understood it was part of the job. So he did it. “I play for the love of the game, and if I had my way, I wouldn’t do any interviews at all. I don’t even know why you want to interview me. I say everything I need to out on that pitch. I get it. I had sports heroes, too. But when they fall off the pedestals you put them on, you swoop in and eat them alive.”
That interview would prove prescient when he left Chelsea years later. The press tore him to shreds for sitting out an entire season, leaving as soon as he became a free agent and basically abandoning London, his fans, and his team.
He still doesn’t talk to the press regularly, but he doesn’t leave their accusations unanswered. He became his own press secretary and posted videos on social media pushing back on false headlines. And when they lost interest, he started sharing his private pictures. And sued newspapers that used his images without his permission.
I watch the exchange between him and the bartender out of the corner of my eye and am giddy that the wickedly sweet dimple is as deep as I’d imagined. And God, I want to lick it. One day, my pretty.
This has to be a sign. He’s so far out of my league, I shouldn’t be able to see him. And at the pub, I wouldn’t dare approach him.
But here I am, close enough to see and touch. And I look good tonight. I’m glad I took special care to send my most fashionable friend off.
The bustier I invested in makes my otherwise unimpressively small breasts look their very best in the very low neckline of my scarlet red minidress. It’s hugging every inch of a body that even CrossFit and a vegan diet couldn’t kill the curves on.
The lighting in this ballroom sets off the healthy glow of my bare legs, shoulders, décolletage, and back that is courtesy of my homemade sugar scrub. It leaves me smelling like a tropical garden at midnight.
Liquid courage and my heels give me height and confidence that override my nerves, and I shoot my shot.
“Do you want to dance?” I ask loudly so there’s no way he won’t hear me.
Those wolf eyes slant down to look at me, unblinking, the smile he’d given the bartender long gone. There’s no flicker of recognition, but there’s no mistaking the interest as he stares at me. He’s never done more than look past me at the pub, so I don’t know why I’m disappointed that he doesn’t recognize me.
“Excuse me? I didn’t hear you,” he says when he finally speaks. His voice. It’s deep, smooth—no gravel but a lot of bass. And is there anything sexier than an American accent? I smile as widely as I can manage, the punters at the Effra call it my traffic stopping smile. Then I break my golden rule and repeat myself. “Would you like to dance?”
He doesn’t return my smile, and when he turns to look at the dance floor, that scowl reappears. “I don’t dance,” he comments without looking back at me.
I follow his gaze. “Childhood trauma on the dance floor?” I ask with a teasing grin.
His lips tug up a little, but he doesn’t smile. “No. General observation. People look ridiculous when they dance.”
I can’t deny that. But I shake my head in disagreement. “They’re having fun, not putting on a show.”
He shrugs. “That’s not my idea of fun. Like I said, I don’t dance.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out his phone, and glances at it. He gives me a quick, stiff smile. “I’m sorry, but I have to take this call.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all and doesn’t wait for me to respond before he walks off.
“Ouch,” the bartender drawls, and I want to glare at him and tell him I didn’t ask for his feedback. But he’s so right I can’t be mad.
“I know,” I groan.
“For what it’s worth, if I wasn’t working I wouldn’t have said no.” He grins, and I wish I was attracted to him instead of Omar.
I smile gratefully and take the refill he hands me. But a few sips of it while swaying by myself to a song I’ve never heard before only makes me feel worse.
I put my glass on the tray of a passing server and head to the coat check to collect my things.