Finding London (Flawed Heart #1) (8 page)

“Yeah?”

“Definitely. You and the whole brooding-jerk vibe you have going on scares me, and if I were to follow the rules of normal human behavior, I would take in the signs you’ve given and back away, leaving you alone to wallow in your moodiness on your own.”

“But you’re not going to?” I say as the plane begins its ascension into the clouds.

“No, Dove says not to. So, nope.” She shakes her head, her long caramel brown hair falling in front of her shoulders. “I’m going to use the time we have together to talk. I’ve lived twenty-two years on this planet, and I have traveled all over the world, yet I’ve never met you until recently. Then, we proceed to run into each other three times in two different states within the same amount of weeks. I’m not sure what, but something—fate, destiny, the cosmos, or an all-knowing sparkly unicorn—wants us to know each other. In what capacity, I’m not sure. But let’s start as friends.” As soon as the last word is out of her mouth, she pulls in a long breath.

“I don’t believe in sparkly unicorns.”

“Apparently, you don’t believe in a lot of things, Loïc, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t real nonetheless.”

“I’m quite sure that omniscient unicorns with glitter coats are indeed not real. I’m willing to bet money on it.”

She playfully swats my arm. “You’re missing the entire point.”

“To which point are you referring? That you take advice from chocolate, have a serious sugar problem, or believe in mythical creatures?”

London laughs, and that sound does something to me.

“That we’re meant to know each other in some way. I’m suggesting friends, but I’m definitely open to other arrangements.”

Her stare takes me in, ripping me raw with intensity. This kind of longing hurts. I’ve never experienced an attraction like this, and I’m convinced I don’t like it.

“I told you that I don’t need more friends.”

At this point, I’m thankful the first-class section is practically empty on this flight. London and I aren’t being loud, but we’re not whispering either. I’m glad that no one else is taking part in our strange get-to-know-you session.

London continues, “I know you said that, but I also know that you didn’t need to come up and say hello back at the airport. You could have ignored me, but you didn’t. So, that right there tells me that you are capable of being a kind person, and that trait alone is enough for me in a friendship.”

“I’ll remember that next time,” I say dryly in an attempt to seem uninterested when, in reality, I am anything but.

London opens each bag of candy and then grabs a gummy worm. She holds on to the end and puts it in her mouth before pulling it out, sucking it.

What the hell?
I
look away, rubbing my sweaty palms on my pants.

She finishes her weird gummy-worm-eating ritual and reaches for a handful of the sour ones. “Have some. They’re so good.”

“I’m fine, really.”

She lightly pokes my side. “Stop being a douche, and just eat some damn candy. I’m prepared to eat it all by myself if I have to, but my thighs won’t be too pleased.”

Leaning my head back against the seat, I groan internally as a vision of holding London’s thighs while she rides me shoots through my head before I can stop it. The flight from Louisville to Detroit is a relatively short one, but no amount of time will be quick enough at this point.

I think back to a few moments ago. “Why are you on a diet?”

London is goddamn perfection. She doesn’t need to lose weight. If she’s one of those chicks who starves herself to remain thin, it will turn me off—or it should.

“What do you mean?” She sounds confused.

“You said that you and your mom ignored your diets to eat chocolate.”

Realization dawns behind her eyes. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not dieting. I meant, my general diet doesn’t usually consist of bags of candy. I’m a pretty healthy eater. I eat a lot—don’t get me wrong—but I try to eat good stuff.”

I’m happy with her response even though it’s just another thing not to hate about her.
Damn it.

“We should do a version of Twenty Questions,” she says with excitement lining her voice.

“What do you mean?” I ask even though I know I’m not going to like her answer.

“Like, we’ll take turns asking each other questions, and we have to answer honestly.”

I was right. I’m not liking it.

“London,” I say on an exasperated sigh.

“Fine, you can go first. Ask me anything.” She practically bounces in her seat.

“Have you always been this annoying?” I bite out.

She shrugs. “Yeah, probably. Okay, my turn. Where were you born?”

“Berkeley, California.”

“Isn’t your last name Berkeley? So, your parents lived in the same city as their name. That’s funny.”

“Not exactly,” I offer.

“Do explain,” she says.

“Fine, but this is one of your questions. I’m only giving you twenty. I was born in Berkeley, but my parents lived in Lancaster, California.”

“So, your mom gave birth to you when she was out of town or something?”

Before I can doubt myself, I just start talking, which is so unlike me. But there is something about London that makes me want her to know things about me, things that only Cooper and Maggie know. “I was adopted by my parents. I’m assuming my birth mom was from Berkeley. I was found on the steps of the Berkeley Fire Department.”

“That’s so crazy. It’s like it’s meant to be,” she says with reverence in her voice. “My sister and I both have geographically themed names, too.” When I don’t question her, she continues, “We were both named after the places where we were conceived.”

I huff out a laugh. “Really?”

She shrugs as her lips tilt up into a grin. “Yeah, my dad has always traveled a lot for work. My mom thought it would be sentimental to name us after our place of conception. My sister should technically be named Atlanta—so we’re told—but they chose Georgia instead.”

“My dad was from London,” I let out before I can stop myself.

“Really? Have you ever been there?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I bet your dad has the best accent. I love English accents.”

“Yeah, he did.” I can still hear his voice after all these years. At the time, I didn’t realize he spoke with an accent. He just spoke like my dad.

“Where do your parents live?” she asks.

“Heaven, I suppose—if such a place exists. They’re dead.”

I can sense London stiffen in the seat next to me.

Her voice comes out broken as she says, “I’m so sorry, Loïc.”

“It’s fine. It was years ago. I was seven when they died.”

“Can I ask how…what happened?”

“Car accident.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

We’re silent for a few beats, and I’m hoping that the questions are done. I try not to think about my parents and the life I lived after the accident. It takes me to a dark place, one that is hard to get out of.

I should know that, with London, nothing is comfortable.

Sure enough, she asks another question, “So, who did you live with after they passed?”

“Various people from all over.” I feel her stare, and I turn my head to meet it.

She’s so beautiful. Her expression is one of sadness, empathy, and confusion.

“I was a foster kid, London. I went from home to home until I was fifteen when I left and just lived on my own…for the most part. I joined the Army when I was eighteen.

“You see, infants are easy to find homes for. When I was left at that fire station, I was snatched up by my parents in a day. Everyone wants a baby. Nobody wants a seven-year-old boy with major emotional baggage.”

London’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, which I find comforting and irritating at the same time. Without saying another word, I stand and make my way to the tiny coffin, also known as the restroom.

I lean against the small counter with my head bowed and eyes closed. I take in the rumbling of the engine and the gentle sway of the moving airplane. My heart is beating rapidly, and my chest screams in pain. I’m so full of contradicting emotions.

London has me so screwed in the head. I’ve survived this life by closing off my feelings, locking them all up behind my tough-as-steel exterior. It’s not an ideal way to live, but it works. Healing requires one to face their demons and let go of their pain. I might seem strong in many ways, but when it comes to that, I’m still the frightened seven-year-old boy who was left with no one. London has this way of making me want to be different. She makes me want to try, and that is scary as shit.

The announcement that we are starting our descent sounds through the speakers.
Thank God for that.
I exit the small enclosure and take my seat next to London.

“Loïc?”

I turn my head to meet her gaze. “No more questions, London.”

She shakes her head. “I wasn’t going to ask you any. I was just going to say that I appreciate you sharing with me. I’m a good listener, if you ever need someone to talk to. I know you aren’t thrilled to keep running into me. But I promise that I can be a good friend, if you find yourself needing one.”

I pull in a deep breath. London’s hopeful gaze penetrates into the most hidden parts of me. With just a look, she reaches places no one else has been before. It leaves me in awe but also with utter feelings of terror.

I know that, if I explore these newfound sensations, I am going to be setting myself up for devastation. I don’t have proof to back up this theory, but staring into the eyes of London, I simply know. She isn’t someone that I can come back from. When I lose her, I will never recover. Of this, I’m certain.

At the same time, with her eyes locked on mine, I’m finding it difficult to care about my inevitable future heartache. This connection gives me strength to push past the boundaries I’ve created and courage to ask the most important question of all.

I clear my throat. “I do have one more question for you.”

“Sure. Anything.” She beams, her full lips causing my heart to stutter in my chest.

“London”—I pull air into my lungs that feel as if they are suffocating—“will you go on a date with me?” I get out the words that I’ve never uttered before.
There’s a first time for everything.

“Of course!” she answers immediately.

I stare at her wide grin. It, like everything else about her, does something crazy to me. She makes me insane, and it’s an insanity I’ve never felt before.

I have a feeling that I will be experiencing a lot of firsts with London. To prove my point, I lean in, and without warning, I take her mouth in mine. She lets out a surprised gasp, and then almost immediately, her lips move against my own. My entire body seems to vibrate in satisfaction.

This is the first time I’ve kissed a girl because I genuinely wanted to feel her lips and taste her sweetness. Kisses have always been a step I needed to complete before sleeping with a chick. The kiss has never been the priority, the core focus. But this right here, with London, is the motherfucking main event.

This is the first instance that I couldn’t stop myself because my attraction to her lips was so overpowering that I’d lose my mind if I had to go another second without feeling them.

Yes, this is going to be the first of many firsts with London, and I’m going to enjoy them all…while they last.

London

“Well, you know what they say. Better to have fucked and lost than never to have fucked at all.”

—London Wright

“I still can’t believe you ran into him at the airport. What are the chances of that?” Paige sits on my bed amid her pile of gossip magazines. Her attention is torn between the gossip of Hollywood’s rich and famous and my own world of exciting developments.

“I know. It was meant to be. I really think so.” I unclip another section of my hair from where it was twisted atop my head, so I can curl it. “I’m nervous though. He’s so hot and cold. Well…he’s pretty much all cold, except for when planes are landing at Metro Airport. Apparently, under those circumstances, he just wants to make out.”

Paige and I burst into laughter.

“He’s strange, for sure. He’s lucky he’s so damn fine.” Paige returns her attention to the magazine in her hand. “Just remember, it’s no use, crying over spilled milk.”

I groan. “Nothing spilled, you dork. I know you’re the proverb queen and all, but how about you stick with your own words when giving advice? They tend to make a little more sense.”

She huffs, “Well, talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”

I throw my hairbrush at her. “I hate you.”

She uses the magazine to block the brush from hitting her. “You love me,” she says with a chuckle.

“You’re right; I do. But you do know that you kinda make me crazy, right?”

She shrugs. “It’s a gift. What can I say?”

Ignoring her rhetorical question, I ask, “How do I look?” I spin around, displaying my date outfit for approval. I’m wearing my favorite skinny jeans and a baby-pink T-shirt. I finish the outfit off with glittery ballet flats. I’m hoping the outfit screams casual but cute in that I-don’t-have-to-try-to-be-sexy-but-I-am-anyway vibe.

Paige peruses my entire look. “You look hot, but you’re, like, naturally gorgeous without even trying.”