Page 5 of Sweeper
“No…it’s Daphney, like…Bridgerton.” She rolls her eyes and says the last word through clenched teeth. “But it’s spelled differently.”
“I have no idea what Bridgerton is. Is it on the menu?” Or are you on the menu? I ask to myself, not even trying to hide my amusement at my own joke as she glares at me with annoyance.
“Oh my God, just order some food,” she snaps as she blows away a strand of blonde hair that fell over her eye.
A lazy smile spreads across my face. She’s cute when she’s frazzled. “Sorry, Ducky. I’m new to the area and just trying to make a friend.”
She props her left hand on her narrow hip. “You’ve known me all of four seconds, and you think you can give me a nickname? A word to the wise, the British aren’t that matey.”
“I’m a soccer player.” I shrug and sit back, crossing my arms over my chest. “We give all our friends nicknames.”
Her eyes narrow as she hunches over and splays her hands on the table, furrowing her thick, dark eyebrows. “Well, it’s called football here, so maybe focus on your British-isms before nicknames, or you’re going to get eaten alive.”
Her nose wrinkles, and I lean closer to her as my eyes zero in on the dimple on her chin. “Maybe I could sample the duck if it’s available?”
She blinks blankly at me before standing back upright. “Is that supposed to be a pickup line?”
I lick my lips knowingly. “Depends on if you like it.”
Her nostrils flare as her voice shifts into a saccharinely sweet tone. “Do you actually want me to spit in your food?”
“I think I’d let you spit in a number of places.” I shoot her my legendary boyish smirk that several magazines have remarked on in my media interviews. She sucks in her lips as her face contorts into a bizarre sort of expression, and it isn’t until she topples over, clutching at her belly, that I realize…
She’s laughing.
At me.
Hard.
It’s a burst of strange, silent laughter, but the tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes and the occasional gasp for breath make it pretty clear she’s laughing her ass off. She’s close to rolling on the floor like the acronym. I didn’t think anyone actually ever did that, but she’s making me doubt that thought.
“He wants to sample the duck!” She turns on her heel to walk away from me as she throws over her shoulder, “I’m not even going to touch your spit remark. It’s too easy. But the duck? That one will stick with me.”
My brows furrow as a strange sensation sweeps over me. Is it…humiliation? I turn my hat forward and pull the bill down low, glancing awkwardly at the group nearby and hoping like fuck they didn’t overhear any of that exchange. I’ve never been so firmly checked by a woman before. I’ve never asked to sample theirduckbefore either.
Jesus Christ, it has to be the jet lag.
A few minutes later, a heavyweight, bearded man by the name of Hubert appears behind the bar, and I sigh with relief that the cute blonde might have left for the day. One mortification per hour is plenty for me, thank you very much. I order a beer and some fish and “chips” from him at the counter and head back to my table to wallow in my pathetic-ness. Maybe British girls won’t like me? Maybe I’m not boyishly charming here?
Fuck, I miss home.
Just as I’m polishing off the last of my food, a voice calls out, “Is there a Zander Williams here?”
I turn toward the entrance and see a guy who looks to be in his late thirties with a little blonde girl clutching tightly to his hand. Beneath her puffy winter coat, it looks like she’s dressed in a black leotard and pink tights with big fuzzy boots on her feet.
“I’m Zander,” I reply, standing up and giving him a head nod.
He smiles and walks over with the girl in tow. “Sorry I’m late. My wife was supposed to be home to take Rocky here to ballet…but she had an emergency at work.” He digs into his pocket and glances at his phone briefly. “Here are the keys to your flat. It’s in that brownstone building just across the street.” He points at the far windows that face the smaller side street. “This is the key to the building, and this is the key to your flat. You’re in unit seven on the third floor. It’s fully furnished as you requested.”
I take the keys from him. “Great, thanks.”
“Normally, I’d help you with your luggage and give you a tour to show you how things work, but Rocky can’t miss ballet—”
“Or the instructor will make me be a tree in the recital,” the little girl chimes in with a severely sour expression. “I will not be a tree again, Daddy.”
“I know, darling. That’s why Auntie is going to help out.” Hayden looks up at me. “My sister will take you over and give you a rundown of everything. She lives in the building as well and is sort of the unofficial building manager.” Hayden’s eyes move past me and widen. “There she is now!”
I turn to follow his gaze and feel a sudden chill wash over me when I see the blonde from earlier striding toward us. Her eyes lower to the little girl as she moves past me and scoops the little ballerina up off the floor.
