Finding London - Ellie Wade (best pdf ebook reader for android .txt) 📗

“I desperately want Loïc Berkeley, and I’m used to getting what I want.”

—London Wright

I relax back into the large tan chair as the massaging balls beneath the leather roll up and down my spine. The contraption working my tired muscles isn’t as divine as a real massage would be, but it’s a close second, especially when it’s paired with a pedicure. I let out a content sigh as a woman massages one of my feet with a soft scrub.

Just what the doctor ordered—and by doctor, I mean, me.

Paige and I love spa days. They’re very healing. When we feel a moment’s stress, our go-to fix is an old-fashioned mani-pedi—and by old-fashioned, I mean, one that takes place in the newest salon in town with the most attentive staff and state-of-the-art massage chairs. Oh, and free wine, not that piss water the cheap spas offer. This is real yummy imported wine.

Ah!

I shoot up, and my entire body cringes when the pedicurist rubs the rough brush across the sensitive skin on the bottom of my foot. My fingers grasp the sides of the chair. My knuckles go white from the force of my grip.

Paige chuckles next to me. “Your favorite part.”

I can’t reply or even give her a look. All my focus needs to be on enduring this small amount of torture on my way to perfectly painted nails and soft-heels heaven without drop-kicking the kind woman’s face in front of me. The struggle is real.

Yes, I know…First World problems.

She finally finishes assaulting my feet and starts to massage my calves with a lotion that smells like coconut, reminding me of the beach.

Ah, this is more like it.

I release the breath I was holding.

Reaching for my phone, I swipe across the screen even though I know I didn’t miss a message. But the pathetic girl in me checks anyway.

Nothing.

I set my phone back down in a huff.

“No message from Romeo?” Paige’s question is rhetorical. She knows as well as I do that my phone hasn’t chimed since I checked it ten minutes ago.

I sigh before answering her anyway, “Not yet.”

I suppose I should be worrying less about text messages and spa days and more about finding a job. When I left Kentucky two weeks ago, I was hell-bent on growing up, obtaining meaningful employment, and being a better person. But my valiant motivation was stripped from me the second Loïc’s lips met mine on that airplane. Now, my entire life’s mission is to continue tangling my lips—among other body parts—with Loïc’s.

He’s all I think about. We’ve been in each other’s presence a total of four times, yet I’m a total goner. I’m not so naive as to think that I’m in love with the guy. More accurately, I think it’s some sort of insane desire paired with an equal measure of obsession. It’s not entirely his looks either. Though I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that his good fortune in the appearance department had fueled my initial crush. I’m not certain if it was his tan skin, muscular arms, sexy bone structure, kissable lips, or those mesmerizing blue eyes. More than likely, it was the combination of each gorgeous attribute wrapped up like a fine little package of hotness in a military uniform. I only had to look his way once to be enraptured.

While all of that is still very much true and extremely lust-worthy in itself, he’s more than a pretty package. I think I knew that almost immediately. From the start, something about him called to me. It was as if I could feel his pain, read his heart, and appreciate his struggles. It was as if he was put before me for me, and I, for him. It was as if I was the person he required to heal his wounded spirit. I’ve had this knowing feeling, all along, deep within, telling me that he needed me.

Am I crazy to think that? Maybe I am.

It might very well be true that I’m not destined to be with Loïc. Perhaps I’m having a post-graduation life crisis, and I’m clinging on to the hot Army guy, who is set on playing hard to get, as my own mission to sanity. Maybe I’m making this all into more than it should be. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve created drama in my life where none should have existed.

It honestly doesn’t make a difference if it’s delusional infatuation or once-in-a-lifetime true love because I’m already invested. Regardless of the origins of these desires, they’re here to stay. I desperately want Loïc Berkeley, and I’m used to getting what I want.

I’m back to sounding spoiled again. I’m working on becoming the person I want to be. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

“What’s the last thing you texted to him?” Amusement lines Paige’s voice.

“You know exactly what I said.” I turn and give her my best attempt at an evil glare.

She just laughs. Obviously, I’m not as intimidating as I think I am.

“Tell me again. I just love it.”

“I told him that his chicken-shit ass had better contact me today because he promised me a second date, and I expect him to deliver.”

She slaps her hand on her thigh in a fit of giggles, startling the women working on our feet. “And you’re surprised he hasn’t responded?”

“I know. It wasn’t my best moment.” I sigh.

In my defense, I was slightly tipsy when I sent that text last night—and by slightly tipsy, I mean, wasted. In addition, it has been a week since our first date, and since then, I’ve received one measly text from him before nothing but radio silence.

The morning after our drive-in movie date—and one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had, I might add—I texted Loïc to tell him that I had a great time. He responded with, Me, too, and that’s the last I’ve heard from him. I’ve texted him once or twice a day since then. I tried keeping my messages upbeat and nonchalant at first. I wanted to give him the I’m-a-cool-and-laid-back-kind-of-girl vibe.

But, after the fourth day of being ignored, my texts changed in nature, and somehow, they turned into the I’m-the-type-of-crazy-that-you-don’t-want-to-bring-home-to-mama vibe. Not that he has a mama. Ugh, wrong analogy.

I should cut him more slack than this. He obviously has issues.

Isn’t his wounded heart part of my intense attraction to him?

Yet would it kill him to text me?

Paige and I leave the coconut-smelling heaven. Our feet and hands have been buffed and lotioned to soft perfection, and our nails are painted a lovely royal blue—our current color obsession. My mom thinks that blue nails, regardless of the specific shade, look trashy, but I disagree.

We hop into my Mercedes, and I start the car, making sure the AC is on full blast. It’s a hot and humid summer day, so immediate AC is life-and-death. Before I can put the car in gear, my phone dings. I whip my head to the side, and my eyes go wide as I look at Paige. She gives me a hopeful smile. I’m sure she thinks my Loïc obsession is a little odd, but as my best friend, she supports me one hundred percent. If I decide to jump aboard the crazy train, she’ll be the first to buy a one-way ticket.

Careful of my freshly painted nails, I reach into my bag to pull out my phone. I have a text, and it’s from Loïc.

Loïc: Pick you up at five. Be ready.

God, he’s bossy, and damn, how I find that so hot.

I peer up to find Paige’s expectant look, and I smile big and squeal. She claps her hands in rapid succession and squeals along with me.