Page 2 of The Himbo and the Lord

“Fine.” I realise it’s the most ungracious answer I can give, but he’s too much for me to cope with right now.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” I’m regretting my decision already, but I’m too tired now and the thought of just being able to lie down is too tempting.

The guy says a room number to the receptionist, who signals to one of the porters to gather my bags.

“C’mon, sleepyhead.”

Yes, I’mreallyregretting this, but I follow him anyway as he leads the way to the elevator.

Once inside, the door closes and he punches in a number. Then he holds out his hand to me.

“Nate.” It’s only when he says this that I realise I was going to sleep with—well, not with, but in the same room as—a guy I didn’t know the name of. The disapproving look my father would give me crosses my mind. It’s a good job he’s thousands of miles away and one of the reasons I readily agreed to this assignment, apart from wanting to prove myself.

I shake his hand. “Rupert.”

He sniggers. “Rupert.” The way he repeats it, mimicking my accent, sets my teeth on edge. I can’t help but reply.

“The Honourable Rupert Francis Harrington Cardew.”

I don’t know whether I thought he’d be impressed or not, but he obviously isn’t since he just keeps smirking.

“What, like an actual lord?”

“Yes, like an actual lord. Well, my father is.” It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud and I feel heat flood my face again. I look away and can’t bite back the retort even knowing I’m being petty. “At least I’m not ahimbo.”

CHAPTERTWO

Nate

The secondI saw that ass—because of course that’s the first thing I saw—my feet corrected course from the elevator banks toward the reception area of the lobby without my permission.

Who could blame me?

Especially when my eyes trailed up and I got a good look at the broad shoulders covered by a wrinkled dress shirt and a disheveled mop of light brown hair.

Andgahd,when I heard the accent? Even if what he was saying was possibly the most obnoxiously Karen-like phrase to ever exist, his accent made it sound like he was asking me if I liked how his dick filled my ass.

Now, I’m not normally this hard up to get laid, but I struck out tonight and was coming back to the hotel early after my friends all found hookups at the club. So with all this horniness to contain, no wonder I immediately offered the embodiment of the word British a bed for the night.

When he turned and I saw his tired hazel eyes with dark circles under them, though, I felt bad for my suggestive comment. Not enough to take the offer back, but enough to tell him there were no strings attached. But then he went ahead and took his damn time checking me out, and when that delicious blush covered his pink skin? Fucking hell, being a good guy was going to give me blue balls.

He’s so uptight, I couldn’t help but smirk teasingly at him when he refused my help. I bet he’s not used to being told what to do, or to getting caught checking another man out. He screams closet case, not that I mind—I’m not one for long-term relationships. Or any kind of relationship. Love ’em and leave ’em is my cliché of choice.

Just not tonight, apparently.

I can’t believe it, but he actually needs convincing. And my incredulousness is not because of my looks—the guy clearly likes what he sees—but because of the situation he’s in. I mean, after how bad my mission to get laid went tonight, I’m not feeling like a million bucks, so forgive me if his rejection stings more than it probably should.

And now, leaning against the mirrored wall of the elevator, Rupert leaning against the opposite one and the bellman between us, I can’t help the harsh laugh that escapes me after he calls me a himbo.

I don’t think I’ve said anything particularly stupid in the last five minutes, so maybe he doesn’t know what the definition is?

I mean, I’d like to think I look like a himbo—hot as fuck—but though I can be really thick sometimes, I think I’ve behavedrather splendidly. And yes, I did use a British accent in my head when I thought that.

So with that in mind, I think behaving like a real himbo right now might be in order. That’ll show him.

“The Honourable Rupert Francis Harrington Cardew.” I repeat his title, seeing how fast I can say it and tripping over the words on the second round.

“Oh, piss off,” Rupert mutters with an impressive scowl on his face. I bet it’d be even more impressive if he didn’t currently look like he’d fall over from exhaustion if I tapped his forehead.

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