My Summer in London (My Summer #1)(10)
#
The next day, Anne came in to greet me before announcing that breakfast was going to be served in half an hour. Sleepy and still partially hallucinating, thinking I was still back in my bed in Los Angeles, I stared back at her with my squinting eyes, disheveled hair, and a look that screamed what the f*uk? After all, where I came from, no one cooked anyone breakfast. If you found yourself hungry, you made toast or popped a frozen waffle in the toaster, whatever was convenient. To wake up to such an untraditional thing, I was instantly reminded of where I was and what I had done last night.
The horror of my mistake last night made me contemplate getting out of bed and facing the man who had made me feel less confident of myself. It was daunting to think of conversing with him, let alone being in the same room and sharing the same table as we talked about menial things that I couldn’t care less about. However, this was part of being human and living in a civilized world—most especially on this part of the map—where class and decorum were high on everyone’s list.
It wasn’t as if I didn’t have class—I believed I did, though I hadn’t exercised much of it last night—or the fact that my display of decorum was nil. It was just that I felt as if I had gone in over my head, and I wasn’t sure how to act around these affluent people. Never again would I dare wear a denim skirt when I had to be surrounded by rich kids. I wouldn’t put myself through that kind of ordeal. It was just too much for anyone to handle.
I was better than this. I kept telling myself that no one should ever have the right to make me doubt myself. However, it was hard to convince myself when my ego and pride had taken a beating from Cruz’s standoffish attitude last night. The need to curl up and sleep through the day, using jetlag as my excuse, was truly tempting, but my parents had taught me better than that. At a young age, manners had been ingrained in my head. Therefore, instead of opting to save myself from more hurt and insanity, I reluctantly rolled off the bed, slowly dragging my feet to the bathroom to get ready to face the music.
Just a little bit over half an hour later, I left my bedroom to head downstairs. I was dressed in an all black outfit, leggings and cami that matched my comfortable flats. My hair was knotted into a messy bun that crowned my head. And as for war paint, I didn’t use much: a smear of concealer, a coat of mascara, and some blinding, bright red lipstick to mask my battered confidence.
Red on my lips meant business. It stated I was not to be f*uked with, because I would chew anyone who crossed me. The fallacy had worked wonders for me over the years, and I had never needed this kind of armor more than today.
With my head held high, I strolled into the dining area and was astounded to find it empty. It took about a minute to recover from this nice surprise before realizing this could be a great excuse to simply retrace my steps and call it a day. Of course, before I could spin around and shimmy away, a sound from the front door made me freeze, and without a chance to breathe, in came the man of my hellish dreams, looking well rested and relaxed.
“Serena.” He nodded towards me while I stood immobilized as he approached me with cool indifference. “I hope you rested well.”
Okay … He was acting as if nothing had happened between us. I could do that, too; be unconcerned and all. How hard could it be?
“Where is everyone?” I asked, taking a seat right across from him and eyeing him like he wasn’t a delicious sin to be savored, but more like a revolting pickle. God, how I loathed and detested pickles. I hated them with a passion. Speaking of passion, it was the same damn feeling that had gotten me into this awkward position. Next time—well, I had better make sure there wasn’t a next time. Period.
“Mother should be down any moment now,” he informed me as he poured himself coffee. “And as for Archer, he’s still out and about town, as expected.”
Archer. If he was here, he would lighten the strained tension between us. Unfortunately, he was probably still with that ex of his. She was too much to handle in my opinion. Then again, men did like their women a little crazy, didn’t they? That was what my ex Aaron told me one time while trying to make a point of me being too boring at times when I opposed getting drunk on a nightly basis.
Partying during weekends was one thing, but every single day of the week? I just couldn’t do it. Not only didn’t I have the capacity to party like a damn animal, but I just didn’t see the point of being in a constant state of inebriation. It was depressing. Besides, I had classes to attend, and I couldn’t go in one with beer goggles on. It wasn’t my thing. I supposed my decision of wanting to have a better GPA than the average college drunk of 2.0 paved the freedom for his cheating ways.
Ugh. The last thing I needed to harp upon today was Aaron. Shit happened, right?
Plucking up a piece of fresh, oven-baked bread, I welcomed the warmth of it against my fingers. The aromatic scent wafted to me the second I pulled it apart, making me salivate. I supposed there were really nice perks being this rich. I could get used to this kind of breakfast on a daily basis.
Chewing on the lightly buttered bread, I poured myself a cup of coffee. The smell of it alone reminded me of last night and how gorgeous he had looked navigating the kitchen as he made cappuccinos.
Speaking of the man, he was consumed in the newspaper rather than trying to converse with me. Not only had his rejection last night stung, but making it too apparent that it was unmentionable this morning made it worse. It was like getting a paper cut. Though it was tiny, the pain it produced was hard to dismiss because all the focus of your body’s stressors honed in on it.