Jock Royal (Jock Hard 4)

City girls whose goal is living in a swank London flat, raising babies and lunching.

So insipidly English.

“Is she?” Shite, why did I say that? Now she’s going to prattle on about Elizabeth bloody Townsend, and I have no interest in hearing about her. If Mum goes on and on about it, she won’t stop with me—she’ll purposely mention our conversation to a friend of Mrs. Townsend, who will tell Elizabeth I asked about her, then out of the blue Lizzie will no doubt drop into my messages.

That’s just the way these things work.

“She is. Elizabeth was with her mum at the flower show in Chelsea and let it slip she didn’t have a date yet for the gala at Albert Hall.” Mum clears her throat.

I roll my eyes and glance back out the window.

We’re still quite a ways from campus—I’d rather not spend the ride talking about some girl I have no interest in.

“I’m not flying home so Lizzie Townsend can dig her claws into my arm and hold it like her ankles are broken.” Or like she has shackles on me. No thanks. “I’ll come home to see you and Dad, but not to date some spoiled—”

“Ashley.”

“Socialite. I was going to say socialite. Jeez, give me some credit.”

“Jeez?” She repeats it as if she’s never heard the expression. “Ugh, you sound so American. What are they doing to you over there?”

“Doing to me?” I laugh. Never ever have I felt more normal than when I finally moved here for uni. I’m not going to stay, but at least I discovered who I am.

I am not the family I was born into. I am not stuffy and serious.

I’m whip-smart, but money won’t be the only thing I live for at the end of the day.

Not that Mum and Dad do, but neither of them were bred to be lower class, and it shows. I’m not calling them snotty, but…they’re posh and snotty. Mum has a kind heart and means well, but her father was knighted by the king in the late forties and she was raised a lady, whilst Dad…

Inherited his role as Baron Talbot as a lad, grandfather having died before I was born and passing everything down to his eldest, as is the custom.

Plenty of land, artwork, some money.

Dad is old school, still goes to his clubs in London to rub elbows with the blue bloods of society. Still has a cigar room at the house where he shuts himself off. Still believes children are to be seen and not heard.

Sent both us boys to prep school, aka boarding school, for a proper education and to be raised by students and faculty.

“Are you still there, darling, or have we been cut off?”

“I’m here, sorry. You were saying?”

“I was asking if you’ve been dating anyone in the States. Anyone you fancy?”

“No, there’s no one I fancy, Mum.” Not even a little, and you can’t count that pest Georgia from my business class even if I can’t get her off my mind.

It’s only because she insulted me that she’s in my thoughts and nothing else, although the cupcakes she baked as a peace offering were fantastic. I ate one once I was home even though I’d acted like I was going to throw them all in the trash.

No, I don’t mention that to Mum, even to complain.

Besides, if I told her Georgia asked me out because she thought I was ugly, Mum would be on the first flight across the ocean to wring Georgia’s neck.

She thinks I’m the most handsome devil in the world, scars and all.

“That’s alright, you have time. And it’s best you don’t form any attachments in America.”

She loves to remind me I’m not staying here, that this is just a whim they’ve agreed to instead of me taking a gap year.

“I know that, Mum.”

She yawns.

“You should get to sleep. It’s late.”

She sighs. “You’re right.” It sounds like she’s leaning back against her pillows and settling in. “Send me a message later, sweetheart. Mummy loves you.”

Mummy loves you.

“Love you too, Mum.” I smile before disconnecting the call and tuck the mobile into a pocket of my duffle bag, resting my head against the seat back and closing my eyes, too.

Five

Georgia

Friday

How have I agreed to come out again after the travesty of last weekend?

Oh, that’s right—I did this to myself because I still feel like an asshole for insulting that poor guy to his face.

Ashley blah blah Mr. Fancy-Pants British guy himself.

The guy with a girl’s name.

I’m not with the girls from the track team tonight; I’ve managed to convince Nalla and Priya to come along since they know Ash already, and also I’d love to become friends with them.

From what I’ve already learned about them in Business Comm, they’re both right up my alley when it comes to good people: funny, nice, outgoing, and smart.