Thirty, Flirty and Freaking Out!

My leg bobs up and down as I try to keep my eyes zeroed in on the traffic light.

My mind is a jumbled mess of panic.

Not now.

Not now.

Not now.

Thirty, the big three-zero, is only ten, freaking, days away!

I don’t have my dream job, the husband, the squalling baby, or my shit together.

I’m flat broke, living in an apartment the size of a shoebox with takeaway boxes piled up in every corner.

The only cock I’ve got is the one in the form of cockroaches living under my sink.

I’m a loser in every sense of the word.

I tap my finger on the dashboard as the stupid red light up ahead refuses to turn green.

I lean back into my seat, letting my hands drop from the steering wheel, accepting my fate.

My eyes lazily drift to the people outside my window, running through the streets like wet rats.

London and rain are practically synonyms.

Why did I ever think spending my college funds to move to the city was a good idea?

Young, dumb, and broke have always been the perfect words to describe me, but in a few days, I guess I won’t be young anymore.

The nagging words of my mother ping-pong through my mind.

"What kind of idiot moves to the city without a plan? What are you going to do, become a no-good stripper?"

The words echo in my head like they’re on some kind of parental guilt-inducing loop.

As if my thighs could even handle a stripper pole. Sure, I’ve got the thick legs for it, but they’re about as graceful as a newborn giraffe on ice skates.

And my boobs? They’d pass the stripper audition, no problem. The belly, though? Not so much. It’s like my body heard I wanted curves and threw in a bonus roll for free. Buy two, get one free!

Not that it’d matter. The second a creepy dude started waving a sweaty fiver in my face, I’d probably trip over my heels and concuss myself on stage.

And let’s not forget my face—I’ve got one of those “girl next door, but she bakes” vibes. You don’t get tips for looking like you could sell cookies to a nun.

Besides, that's not what I came here to be. I’m going to be an interior designer—and a damn good one at that.

I already have the sense of style down, and I’m thrifty enough to create my vision on a budget.

I can’t give up on the passion that’s been flowing through my veins ever since I was an eight-year-old creating breathtaking designs with my crayons.

Plus, I have to prove my mother wrong. I hate it when that woman is right.

Like when she predicted that my first boyfriend was a no-good dick or the time she told me not to go out clubbing in a miniskirt in the middle of winter. I got pneumonia for a few weeks, but I managed to nab a few numbers that night.

Beep! Beep! BEEP!

My head snaps around to see the entitled Porsche hooting behind me.

I’m tempted to flip off the snobby-looking blonde sitting behind the steering wheel, but my better judgment tells me not to anger a rich bitch.

Those are the types who’d be petty enough to take you to court for wearing plaids with florals.

I glance back at the traffic light up ahead, which maintains its stubborn red colour.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP!!!

I scowl at the driver behind me and wave toward the red light, signalling to her that I can’t possibly do anything about the traffic.

Does she care? No.

The insistent beeping continues, blending in with the raindrops pattering on my roof.

I grit my teeth together and reach over to flip on the sound system, hoping some music will calm me before I go insane.

As soon as I select my playlist, the music slithers quietly through the speakers.

My fingers brush over the knob to adjust the volume, but a particularly loud honk from the Porsche behind me makes me jump, and I accidentally crank the volume to full blast.

“Ouch!” I yelp as the sound stings my ears.

I scramble to lower the volume, but when I grab hold of the knob, it falls off and rolls onto the floor.

I bite my lip as another blast from the Porsche's horn joins in the cacophony.

I lean forward to pick it up and somehow reattach it, but my seatbelt decides I no longer have the right to move and yanks me back into my seat.

The ruckus from my sound system only makes the woman behind me honk her horn louder.

“Why me? Why? Why!” I scream inside the confines of my car.

I grip the wheel tightly, my knuckles white. I don’t care about the red light anymore. I need to get home before I lose it.

I press my foot to the gas, and my car lurches forward, only moving a few centimetres before hitting something with a dull thud.

Oh. My. Gosh.

I slam my foot down on the brakes, my heart hammering in my chest and my stomach twisting in knots. I’ve killed someone. I’ve killed someone in a fit of road rage over a traffic light.

Shaking, I stumble out of the car, rain instantly drenching me. I inch toward the hood, ready to see a sweet old lady or a stray dog.

But no.

Sprawled across the road is a man, and not just any man. He looks like he’s just jumped out of the cover of GQ: tan skin, bulging muscles, and scar leading from his eye to his sharp jawline.

I kneel beside the body, brushing damp black hair out of his eyes. “Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.”

A soft groan escapes his firm lips, and I instinctively gasp.

His brows scrunch together for a moment as his eyes flutter open—deep, beautiful, golden eyes.

He groans, the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard, before parting his lips. “Nice rack.”

I freeze, glancing down at my rain-soaked t-shirt, which leaves nothing to the imagination.

“Perv,” I snap, yanking the neckline up.

He smirks, wincing slightly, "What? You're the one who blessed me with the view."

I catch onto the American accent lacing his words and roll my eyes, "You Americans are so crass even when you're practically dying."

"And you Brits are pretty sexy even when you're soaked to the bone," His eyes run me over.

I try to fight off the irritating blush that creeps up my neck. I hate how easy it is for jackasses like him to flatter me.

He tries to raise himself to a sitting position, but clutches his side and drops back down.

"Fuck, that hurts," His hand rubs up and down his side.

A pang of guilt shoots through my chest, "I could drive you to a hospital..."

"Hospital?" He cuts me off with a scoff, "I'm pressing charges."

My eyes widen so much it hurts, "What? Wait, no! Please don't do that. I'll pay for the hospital, I'll be your chauffeur for a year, I'll...buy your groceries? Just please don't press charges."

The cold expression on his face melts into a cocky smirk, "Gotcha."

Are you shitting me?

"You...You're an asshole," I stand up, all remorse I had for hitting him forgotten.

I trudge through puddles back to my car door and swing it open, sliding inside.

My seats are now just as soaked as my clothes are, but I don't give a damn. I'm getting home right now.

Tap, tap, tap

I look to my left and see the drenched American standing there with a sheepish smile on his gorgeous face, "I'm sorry, okay?"

I look away, ignoring his presence. You don't nearly give me a heart attack and just get away with it.

"Please?" His knuckles continue to rap against the glass, "Can you just drive me home? You are the reason I'm in this mess after all."

He's right, though; all of this is my fault.

I steal a glance at his wet form, his black t-shirt clinging to his muscular frame. In a way, he looked like a helpless stray puppy, a hot puppy, though.

"FINE!" I blurt before I have the chance to remember how upset I am with him.

A delighted smile graces his firm lips as he opens the door and slides into the passenger seat.

He opens his mouth to speak before I press a finger to his lips, "If I'm driving you home we're doing it in silence."

He nods complaintly and leans back in his seat before I switch on my car.

YOU BELONG WITH MEEEEE....

The speaker blasts a Taylor Swift's song, making both of us plug our ears. I'd forgotten about the stupid sound system.

"So much for silence," he laughs over the music, and I push my foot down on the gas, making the car crawl down the road.

The drive to the American's place is short but oh, so irritating.

On top of the loud music, the smug look on my passenger's face was annoying me to no end.

How had this man I just met managed to be so frustrating?

Frustrating and hot, though.

He directed me to pull up in front of a fancy-looking apartment building, and for a second there, I was sure he was pulling my leg.

Now, it wasn't that he looked poor exactly, but he definitely didn't seem rich enough to be renting out such a place in the middle of London.

"Stop messing around," I turn off my car which finally shuts up the stupid music.

He raises a perfect eyebrow at me, and I feel my stomach do a backflip.

He's so effortlessly sexy.

"I'm not messing with you, this is my place."

He unbuckles his seat belt and heaves himself out of the car, looking more than a little sore.

I'm just about ready to switch my car back on and be on my way when his outstretched hand grabs my attention.

"Come. I at least owe you a cup of coffee for bullying you earlier," his words sounded sincere, but the cheeky glimmer in his eyes told me he found this all very funny.

No way I was going to prolong my interaction with this cocky American. I'd rather take overtime at the Tesco's I work in.

"No thanks. I prefer tea anyway," I turn my nose up.

"British women," he grumbles before reaching into my car and grabbing me by the shoulders.

I clutch onto the steering wheel for dear life, but it's no use as he flexes his muscles and yanks me out in one fell swoop.

As I stand beside him on the path I wonder how he even managed to drag me across the driver's and passenger's seat so easily.

"let's go," he pulls me firmly by the hand.

Even injured this man is as strong as an ox.

After a quick elevator ride up to the third floor he was digging through his pockets for his house keys.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he says as he jiggles the handle open.

The sight that greets me almost knocks the wind out of my lungs. This place was teeming with potential!

The brick walls, the natural lighting, the linoleum floor, everything was perfect...except the actual decor.

Minimalist and not just normal minimalist, bachelor minimalist.

Clearly, this American was the kind of man who thought having one potted plant and carpet floating in the middle of the room made him stylish.

I can literally feel my skin crawl.

"Earth to England," the words tumbling from the American's lips snap me out of my interior designing haze.

"Yeah?" I look up at him standing in the middle of the room.

"Take off your clothes." Ghecommanding edge in his tone sends a litter of goosebumps up my skin.

"W-What? Huh?," I flounder like a fish.

His hands grip the edge of his shirt as he yanks it off and lets it fall to the floor, revealing a delicious six-pack and pecks covered in tattoos.

A rush of heat runs through me and pools in my stomach. This man is insane or am I the insane one because of how excited I'm getting?

Oh my gosh!

"I said," he ran a hand through his wet hair, "Take off your clothes."