Floored Read online

  What a strange turn of events, I thought as I hustled my ass to the train station. The day before, I left my flat expecting a fairly easy day of seeing some of the sights I hadn't seen yet. I saw some sights, all right.

  The station was packed, given it was a Monday morning, and the soaring ceiling of glass and iron was high enough that I never felt claustrophobic as I waited in a jostling line to hop on the train I needed. I was at the back of it, though, so by the time the doors slid shut behind me, I settled on the floor of one of the connecting cars between trains, my head resting on the hard plastic as I listened to the chatter around me.

  People visiting. People going off to work. Or like me, on their way to school.

  I hadn't traveled much, which most people found surprising, given my brother's job in the NFL. But when Logan played, we were in school, and his mom—our nana—stayed with us. Being in a place like this was a culture change that made my blood hum happily. Days like the one I'd had, feeling lonely, wasn't normal for me.

  Maybe the night before, the hours I'd spent with Jude, was the reset I needed because my loneliness was long gone as I sat on the floor of that fast-moving train. I couldn't really see any of the blurred scenery passing because of where I was sitting—the buildings and cars and communities that sprawled out from London—but I felt at ease, all of the ickiness from before a distant memory. I sighed and took the last lukewarm sip of the coffee Carl had so generously given me.

  My phone buzzed in my purse and I pulled it out. An email from Catherine Atwood caught my attention on the notifications, and I blew a gusty sigh of relief when I saw it.

  Running behind. Will meet you thirty minutes later than we arranged.

  Best, Catherine Atwood, PhD

  Maybe the ghosts of the Brontë sisters, who I thought of as my patron saints if I had any, were looking out for me. They saw my opportunity for the epic shag and helped a sister out. It made me smile to imagine it.

  The second notification also had me smiling, but for a different reason.

  Finn: Second date with Keeley went great. We're going out again tomorrow.

  My thumbs flew across the screen as I replied to my best friend.

  Me: OMG I TOLD YOU

  Me: Didn't I tell you she didn't actually think you were a nerd?

  Finn: You did. She doesn't even mind that I'm working a thousand hours a week right now.

  Me: An excellent trait for someone dating a doctor.

  Finn: Future doctor. I hardly have time to sleep right now. Is it stupid to try to date someone I actually LIKE?

  Me: Shut up. Go out with her again. I'll just never speak to you anymore because you'll be happy and busy and becoming a doctor and sucking face with her all the time.

  Finn: True. You'll probably never see me when you get back either. I know how you feel about PDA.

  Finn: Bauer and Claire are the WORST, btw. I saw them last week, and I swear, he forgot I was there at one point when she kissed him.

  That made me laugh softly because normally, I did hate PDA. I teased Claire about the fact that she and Bauer couldn't keep their hands off of each other, but in a strange way, her new relationship—and Finn's, for that matter—made it easier to be where I was. She had someone. Someone who loved her fiercely, no matter how caught off guard we'd all been by my quiet sister's relationship with the bad boy snowboarder.

  Me: You'll have to manage them in my absence.

  Me: Gotta go, my train is approaching the station.

  Finn: ?? You're just getting back to Oxford??

  Yeah, not touching that one with a ten-foot pole. I tucked my phone away as I hauled myself back up to my feet, following the flow of people who exited the train along with me at the Oxford railway station. The university of Oxford wasn't a typical college, centered in one place within a city. Depending on where you needed to go, it could take another forty minutes from the train station until you reached your destination.

  After two weeks, I finally felt like I had a handle on the whole “getting around” thing. At home, it was so easy to just ... hop in the car. Here, it was like a whole thing. Figuring out the best/fastest way to arrive where you needed to go.

  Oxford was smaller than London, obviously, though equally steeped in history. It still felt like I was walking through a movie set as I made my way back to my place. I skipped up the narrow stairs to my second floor flat and unlocked the bright blue door. With a glance at the clock, I had just enough time to change, run a brush through my hair, slap some mascara on, and get to Catherine's office at Oriel College.

  The mirror in my tiny bathroom had me grimacing because whoo boy, my hair looked like I'd spent the night having sex with someone and then bolting out the door. With a yank of a brush and a little product, I was able to braid it and wind the full length into a sedate bun at the base of my skull.

  My black shirt still held a trace of beer smell, so I stripped that off and tossed it into the hamper in the corner. The leggings stayed, as did the flats, and I topped them with a soft chambray shirt and a simple gold necklace.

  I shoved an apple from the tiny kitchenette into my purse, munching on it on my way to her office.

  By the time I got there, I beat our postponed meeting time by three minutes. Just enough to have a nervous pit swirling in my belly.

  I loved school. Loved learning. And I came this close to blowing off this first meeting with Catherine when she was doing me a huge favor by agreeing to allow me into the research cohort she was overseeing. My advisor at UW about cried tears of joy when I asked for the credits equal to a class for one semester in order to do it.

  This was what you called a no-friggin’-brainer.

  When I raised my hand to knock on her office door, I took a second to gather myself.

  Whatever urge I'd felt yesterday, whatever feelings had swamped me during my day in London, those had to stay the frick away from me. Leaving my family, leaving my entire life for a few months had nothing to do with epic shags or morose palace viewings. I came to learn and get one step closer to figuring out what I wanted to do with all these years of education.

  "You can do this," I told myself.

  I knocked, and she called for me to come in.

  From her seat behind her massive desk, Catherine glanced at me over her black-rimmed glasses. "Morning, Miss Ward. Thank you for being willing to wait for me."

  "No problem." I took a seat across from her when she gestured to one of the leather chairs.

  She set her pen down and leaned back in her chair, assessing me carefully. "Let me remind you, simply because you're not taking a typical class, this will be no walk in the park. I'll expect world-class work from you, Lia, because that's what I expect from everyone who learns under me."

  "I understand." I took a spiral-bound notebook and my favorite purple pen out of my backpack. "And I am beyond ready to get started."

  She grinned. "Good."

  As she talked, I listened, I wrote faster than my brain could keep up with, and as I sat in the chair, my memories of Jude faded, disappearing like a fast-moving train.

  Chapter Five

  Jude

  The moment I opened my eyes and found myself alone in that awful little bed, I knew the day would turn to complete and utter shit. A glance at my phone, left discarded on the floor in a pile of the clothes that had been torn from my body with surprising alacrity, showed a time that I hadn't slept to in years.

  Sitting up, I felt aches in my back and grinned to myself.

  Sore from sex at thirty-one. What a joke I was. Not just that but she'd snuck from the room without waking me like I was some drunken tryst she desperately wanted to avoid. I could hardly hold that against her, though, as it had been the driving force behind my impulsive actions. That woman, beautiful and bold and unafraid to challenge me, had no bloody clue who I was.

  Not that I was someone who got mobbed on the streets, especially when I came into London. But when she looked at me, those big blue eyes held no expectat
ion, no weighty anticipation of what I might be like because of what I did.

  And in my life, it was glorious to have that moment of respite.

  Made all the more glorious when I heard the heavy footsteps of my brother tromping up the stairs to the flat.

  "Are you decent?" he called from the door. "Or do you have a bird balancing on your balls?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Bloody Carl," I muttered, standing to tug my trousers back up over my legs. "You can come in."

  Lewis shoved the door open, and I glared.

  He laid a hand on his chest. "I'm gutted."

  "Are you?"

  "Imagine my surprise when I come in this morning, and Carl informs me that my paragon of a big brother took an American up to my flat for a shag in my pub. I've never even done that."

  I raised my eyebrows.

  "Fine. Once or twice before I married Jo."

  "Where were you last night?"

  "Had to go help Mum and Dad with something. I didn't know you were going to stop by. I always ask when you're here, and you don't actually come." He smiled. "If I'd known, I would've forced you to come with me."

  Guilt had me grimacing. My brother, though I loved him, did have a terrible habit of trying to smooth over the rough, dysfunctional edges within our little family. I hardly talked to our parents anymore, a fact that bothered him immensely. But in fairness, they weren't complete arseholes to him.

  "I think I like how I spent my evening better, thank you."

  Lewis laughed. "She must have been fit as all fuck if you took a go at her. I haven't heard about you with a woman in bloody ages."

  A flash of Lia, uninvited, swept through my mind. Back braced against the wall while she waited for me to kiss her. Yeah ... she'd been that and more. Not that I particularly wanted to discuss that with my arsehole brother.

  I shoved at his shoulder. "Put a sock in it, Lewis. I'm allowed a night of fun every once in a while, yeah?"

  "You'd be a lot more enjoyable to be around if you had nights like that more often."

  Rolling my eyes, I decided not to argue that one with him. It was the great argument between me and my family. Our parents—humble, hardworking stock who came from humble, hardworking stock—couldn't understand sacrificing my life to playing a game. They were farmers, a cog in a wheel that kept the world, the very framework of society moving. And to them, my career was silly. Shallow.

  But they'd never understood.

  In that game, I found the great love of my life—the black and white ball and the green grass of the pitch kept me centered. Kept me driving forward and gave me purpose when everything else in my life felt uncertain. A place that I could carve out my legacy and make an impact that would far outlast my days playing the game.

  Until the past few seasons, where age was catching up with me far faster than I would've liked. Lewis, who did love football, simply wished that I was more present with our family. Or at least put in an attempt, which was the same thing he wished from our parents, who were just as stubborn.

  Tugging my shirt back on, I watched Lewis look down at the bottles on the bar cart. "You drinking my whiskey, you prick?"

  "Sod off. It was already open."

  He laughed. "I can't believe you actually drank during the season."

  "I hardly finished either," I said, quite defensively too. "Less than half a beer and probably two sips of your whiskey."

  Lewis shook his head.

  "You're here early," I said.

  His gaze snapped from the bottles. "Yeah. When Carl told me my big brother not only visited without being guilted into it but also slept here, I decided it warranted investigation."

  My eyes rolled without any conscious decision on my part. "I don't have to be guilted into visiting."

  "Don't you?" Lewis tapped his chin. "Yes, I vaguely remember that one time six years ago."

  The truth of it pricked, just a little.

  "It's not like you hop over to Shepperton much either, little brother." I wiped a hand down my face. "I'm pretty busy during the season, you know."

  "Everyone's busy in their own way, Jude," he said evenly. "I worked all day on bookkeeping for the pub, then had to drive out to Mum and Dad's to help."

  "With what?" Guilt, just as he'd said, had me asking.

  "They got some new creep feeding pens that needed set up. Two of his workers are sick, so he needed an extra set of hands with that and measuring the lambs."

  All the things we'd had to help with as boys, all the things I'd hated to do. "I tried to send them a check last year, told him to hire more people so they didn't have to work as hard."

  "Some people like working hard on their own land," Lewis answered. "Not everything can be handled with a check, big brother."

  "So I gathered when he mailed it back to me," I said with a wry smile.

  My brother finally cracked a grin. "Feel free to toss any money you please at the pub. We need to replace the booths. Can't have cracks in the seats if your sainted arse is going to grace them now."

  "I need to get to work," I said. "If you're quite finished."

  He sighed. "Even a night spent shagging doesn't relax you, brother."

  "It wasn't a night spent shagging," I muttered. "We just ... fell asleep afterward."

  Lewis hooted with glee. "Imagine the paps running with that headline. Shepperton footballer gets a good night of beauty sleep." He shook his head.

  I shoved at him. "That's not all I did, you prat."

  Making my brother laugh was a small moment when I had to recognize why I'd stopped at The Red Lion the night before. Why I'd fallen so easily into bed with Lia. Everything in my life that was wrapped up in my job wasn't simple anymore. Not after a decade of being exactly that.

  The nature of my relationship with my parents—that was to say, fairly nonexistent—meant I couldn't show up at the farm where Lewis and I had been raised and offer to help them with something like my brother had done the night before.

  But I could stop and see my little brother to share a beer and a laugh.

  And in his absence, Lia had offered me a delectable alternative, something to reignite that burn behind my chest, the one that used to fuel me on the pitch.

  Lewis held the door open for me. "Hungry? I could see if Maggie'd make some eggs."

  "I'm starved. Breakfast would be smart before I go in to talk to Conworth."

  He looked over his shoulder. "Ugly match on Saturday."

  "Yeah." One-nil against Crystal Palace in a complete and utter slogfest. That was partially why I was sore today, not simply from Lia with the big blue eyes.

  Lewis grunted. "Need to do better than that. They're gonna bench your arse for the new French kid. He's bloody fast, isn't he?"

  My smile was tight. "I'm aware, Lewis. But thank you for the reminder."

  My mobile buzzed, and a text from my manager flashed across the screen, followed by a few I'd missed the evening before.

  Conworth: Before you work out, meet me in my office for a chat. You need to do better this weekend.

  Everyone in my life wanted me to do better. Do more.

  My manager wanted me to be faster.

  My brother simply wanted me to try.

  A small corner of white caught my attention, a warped image of serviette appearing behind the bottle of amber liquid on the bar cart. I walked over, smiling when I saw feminine handwriting across the surface.

  "Brilliant," I whispered, tucking it into my pocket.

  My life wasn't without a heavy load of complications, but just knowing I wasn't the only one who felt what I'd felt, I walked downstairs to my arsehole brother and his empty pub with a wide grin on my face.

  Chapter Six

  Lia

  The next couple of weeks had a rhythm I hadn't established in the first two weeks on this side of the Atlantic.

  My body adjusted, and even though I still needed copious amounts of coffee every morning to wake, I no longer felt like a zombie by dinnertime. At home, the chaos o
f my days involved a larger coverage of space. Running errands and appointments could easily take me across one end of Seattle to the other. At Oxford, I covered a fairly small area. I found places I liked to eat, places I liked to read, places I liked to study, and places I liked to lie on the grass and stare at the sky like my research topic would magically fall from the fluffy white clouds and plop onto my face.

  I didn't really make friends with any impossibly fashionable British girls, like I'd imagined I would, which was apparently quite normal when you were studying abroad for a semester. The girl who lived next door to me, Alyishia—at Oxford for a semester focusing on pre-Raphaelite art—was the closest thing I had to a friendly relationship. We'd traded about seven sentences when we passed each other in the hallway.

  I ate a lot of bangers and mash and beef pies because I was in Great Britain, and obviously, I would gorge myself on all the meat and carbs I could possibly fit into my skinny jeans. Scones with clotted cream were the other piece I might regret once I finally brought myself to step on a scale, but each time I could continue to close my pants, I thanked my DNA for allowing me to stay slim despite my horrific eating habits while in jolly old England.

  I met with Professor Atwood twice a week, and to my utter frustration, she nixed almost every single idea I came up with for my semester project. And among all of that, I hadn't heard a single word from Mr. Excellent One-Night Stand. I annoyed myself with how frequently I checked my phone because I was not that girl. I'd dated casually, and it was fine, no romantic misery attached to anything I'd experienced, but I was not the “omg, is he going to call me soon?” girl.