My Summer in London (My Summer #1)(18)

Maybe I had caught him at a bad time. Well, there was no good time past midnight when one was calling for a favor. Damn it. I probably should just apologize and hang up for bothering him. It would be the politest thing to do.

“What is that sound in the background?” He sounded appalled.

Your worst nightmare, I wanted to retort back, but I successfully refrained from it. Instead, I decided to play nice.

“It’s called the “Macarena,” A blast from the past, 90s style.”

“It’s the what?”

“Have you been living in a cave? ’Cause I’m pretty sure everyone’s heard this song.”

There was something about his tone that rubbed me the wrong way. I felt as though he was judging me for some reason.

“I sure as hell haven’t, so no, I doubt everyone has heard of it.”

I couldn’t believe it. We were actually arguing about the f*uking “Macarena” song. Why did he have to be so infuriating?

“I get that you’re mister high and mighty, but please, just for once—just this one time—could you please take the stick out of your royal ass?”

“I beg your pardon? First of all, I am not royalty. Secondly, I never had a stick up my arse, not now, not ever, not even in the near bloody future—”

Okay, I got that loud and crystal clear.

“Fine. Okay, whatever.” This whole conversation had started on the wrong footing. How it got here, I had no idea. As much as I would have liked to bury this entire conversation, he apparently wasn’t done.

“Did you insinuate that because of what happened that night?” he confronted, possibly wanting to open the can of worms once again.

Oh, no. I could talk and argue about anything: conspiracy theories about NASA covering up alien life, the inhumane ritual killing of hundreds of whales in the Faroe Islands, the child bride practices in other cultures, the thriving narcissistic culture through social media, why Kylie Jenner’s lips garnered more attention than ISIS in our society’s younger generation—heck, anything, anything at all. But never about that night. I just couldn’t.

“Listen, I’m sorry I called at this late hour. Just scratch everything I said. It was a mistake calling you tonight.”

“Were you drunk dialing and mistakenly called me?”

Drunk dialing? I wasn’t that kind of woman. What the hell? I was a fun drunk, not some emotional train wreck.

“No, but if I was, I’d rather call 1-800-MASTURLINE.”

WTF? Did I just say that out loud?

Shit. Shit. SHIT.

My face was beyond hot; it was burning from inside out.

“Forget I said that. f*uk!”

I wanted to die on the spot. What in the world made me spout off idiotic things to him? It was like vomit—just when you thought it was over and done with, there was another surprise attack sneaking up on you.

“Like hell I will. MASTURLINE?” His tone sounded amused with a hint of intrigue. “Care to elaborate on that?”

“Not really. Nope.” I shook my head, wanting for something to swallow me alive so I didn’t have to endure another notch in my already long list of embarrassing moments where Cruz was concerned.

“You’re quite the firecracker, aren’t you, Serena?”

How badly I wanted to die right then and there. Then again, the uncomfortable damage was done, so it was best to live with it.

“You bet. I’m like a Christmas morning—a gift that keeps on giving. Now that we’ve established that, can I hang up now? ’Cause I think my fun-o-meter is running low.”

“Why did you call me in the first place, Serena?” he inquired, obviously willing to forgo the awkward moment.

I could have sighed with relief, but I didn’t want him to know how embroiled and distressed I was.

“I wouldn’t have bugged you in the first place if Archer wasn’t out of town.”

“Good to know I’m not the first choice.” Pure sarcasm laced his voice, none too pleased.

His comment was as if he was implying something else entirely. If his ego was bruised, well, it wasn’t my intention.

Back to my present conundrum, I hoped he would be willing to help me.

“Are you back in town, or are you still in Geneva?”

“I flew in four hours ago.”

“Right. Well, I know this might seem too much, given that you guys don’t know me all that well yet, but since you once told me that I could count on you when I needed something, I was hoping, if possible, there’s a spare driver you could call to come pick me up right now? I know it’s late, and I apologize for that. I promise this will be the first and only time. I don’t like inconveniencing people for my benefit. I’m not like that at all. I just wanted to add that.”

There was a momentary pause before he said, “Where are you exactly?”

“Brighton.”

“What in God’s name are you doing in Brighton on a school day?” he hissed, briefly stunning me.

The second I regained my wit, I immediately went into defensive mode. “What do you think, Cruz? We’re studying the Bible and singing “Kumbaya,” I snapped back, fuming.

“Lovely, just lovely. At least one of us finds it humorous,” He reprimanded in a manner that a principal would use to scold a student. “Text me the address this instant, and someone will be on their way to come fetch you.”