Arrogant Devil

It was remarkably easy to spot the different sports; the telltale signs gave each one away. The rugby and weightlifting guys made their way through four or five different lines, stacking up their trays with enough sustenance to last a normal human a full year. A group of Serbian basketball players had taken up residence in the corner of the food court, towering over the crowd and making the team of Australian gymnasts sitting beside them look like hobbits.

  Though there were clearly differences in body sizes, there was no denying one fact: every single person was young and in the best shape of their lives. It was no wonder there were so many rumors about the Olympic village; hundreds of attractive athletes with energy to spare were bound to get into a little bit of trouble.

  “What kind of juice are you going to get?” Kinsley asked, pulling me out of my survey of the room. We were nearly at the front of the line and I hadn’t even glanced over the menu.

  “I think I want a smoothie.”

  She laughed. “Well there’s like fifty of them, so—”

  Kinsley was cut off when the girl behind us in line squealed so loud I nearly lost hearing in my left ear.

  “HOLY SHIT,” she squealed, nudging her friend’s arm. “There’s Freddie!”

  “Shut up! Shut up,” her friend chimed in.

  My gut clenched as I glanced over my shoulder. The girls were a good deal shorter than I was, and when I spun to face them, the faint smell of chlorine spiked the air. They were definitely swimmers, and judging by their identical mannerisms, I guessed synchronized.

  “Oh my god. He’s coming this way,” the first girl said. “Do I look okay?”

  If Freddie was coming their way, he was coming my way. My heart pounded in my chest as I scanned past the girls to see Freddie walk up to the back of the juice line with what looked like a few other guys from his swim team. He hadn’t noticed me yet, which was for the best, because I couldn’t drag my gaze away from him. At the party the night before, it’d been dark, and the alcohol had cast him in hazy soap opera light. Here, now, in the food court, there was no denying his appeal.

  I stood immobile, accepting the punch to the gut that came with the realization that Freddie’s good looks hinted at years of mischief managed through sly smiles and charming words. His kind brown eyes and endearing smile suggested he’d never been grounded a day in his life, but the chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones whispered that he probably should have been.

  He was trying to look over the menu, but there was too much excitement surrounding him. A line of athletes began to form to the side of him as if choreographed beforehand.

  “Could I get an autograph for my mum?”

  “Freddie! Where are you staying for the games?”

  “Can I see your abs?”

  Question after question came his way, and I realized that whatever popularity Kinsley had, it didn’t hold a candle to Freddie’s. He drew attention like he was born for it, and as he smiled down and graciously signed autographs, I remembered that might well have been the case.

  I used the crowd to conceal my gaze as I continued watching him, or at least I thought I did. I was openly gawking at him as he handed off an autograph and turned in my direction. His eyes locked on me and he smiled out of the right side of his mouth, a slow, cheeky smile that grew the longer I stared.

  “Andie,” Kinsley hissed, trying to break through the spell.

  I blinked once, twice. Freddie offered me a subtle wave, and then I spun around with cheeks on fire and embarrassment coating my skin.

  “Holy shit,” I said, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “How long was I staring at him?”

  Kinsley gripped my hand and squeezed it, hard. “I thought you went catatonic there for a second.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed and groaned under my breath. Then, a hand reached out and tapped my shoulder. It was the girl from before—the swimmer with the nails-on-a-chalkboard squeal.

  “Um, excuse me. Do you know Freddie?”

  Before I could answer, her friend chimed in.

  “If you do, could you introduce us? It’s just that—”

  Kinsley held up her hand to stop them. “She doesn’t know him. He was clearly waving at the juice man,” she said, motioning to the elderly Brazilian man behind the counter.

  I forced myself to move forward in line and I kept my eyes trained ahead of me, but the excitement behind me was too hard to ignore. People whispered, girls squealed, and cameras flashed as Freddie took photos with his fans. I moved forward and ordered a strawberry banana protein smoothie, and as I turned to find a seat with Kinsley, I ignored every urge to look in his direction as I passed. It was painful to deny myself that simple pleasure, and I was still lamenting that fact when he bent out of line and reached for my hand. His palm touched mine and my heart stopped. He gripped my hand tightly, just for a moment, then let it go.

  Hhhhoooookkkkaay. I was definitely having a heart attack. This is the end. I’m going to die in a smoothie line. I couldn’t breathe and my chest hurt, and then he smiled and started speaking, but I couldn’t hear him over the sound of my heart.

  “I’m sorry,” I accidentally shouted. “What?”

  He smiled wider, reveling in the fact that he’d knocked me off my senses. I could only focus on his eyes, at the exact shade of light brown that promised to be my demise.

  “Your smoothie,” he said with a smooth British accent. “You’ve left it.”

  I whipped around to see a girl behind the counter waving my smoothie in the air like a metronome. “Don’t you want this?” she asked, confused.

  I cringed. Had I not grabbed it already? Apparently not. I hid my face as I walked back and took it from her hand. Every single person in line trailed my movements, either because they thought I was a little off my rocker, or because Freddie Archibald had just reached out and held my hand. His touch had been warm and his palm was massive, wrapping around mine with no effort at all.

  I’d stood in line for a smoothie for a solid twenty minutes and then I’d walked away empty-handed, too dumbstruck to care. All because of Freddie-freaking-Archibald—who, by the way, was still watching me.

  I forced myself to make eye contact with him as I passed, and he smiled a secret little smile I knew I’d be dissecting for hours.

  “See you around,” he said, and the words felt more like a promise than a dismissal.

  Kinsley and Becca didn’t say a word as we took our seats at a table far, far away from Freddie and his adoring fans. I purposely positioned myself with my back to him and stared at my smoothie.

  “Honestly, Andie, you need to cool your jets with Freddie—”

  Kinsley started rambling on again, but I wasn’t listening. She was going to tell me to “focus on soccer” and “stay away from boys” and “don’t party” and “keep your head in the game”, and I didn’t want to hear it.

  I pulled my phone out of my purse to find a text message my mom had sent right after I’d hung up on her. I swiped it open much to the dismay of Kinsley.

  “Andie!” Kinsley said. “Are you listening?”

  Mom: You didn’t let me finish! Frederick is betrothed. Can you believe it? Maybe if the two of you become friends you’ll be invited to a royal wedding! Or maybe he has a friend…another duke perhaps! Meemaw would be so excited!

  NO! Betrothed? Betrothed? No. No. No.

  My stomach hurt. This wasn’t right. He was supposed to be single. We were supposed to touch hands and exchange sly smiles and…

  “He’s betrothed?” I asked, hearing the shock in my voice.

  I dropped my phone on the table and Kinsley leaned forward to read the text message. When she was done, she glanced up at me with a pitiful frown.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all morning. Freddie is set to marry some girl named Caroline Montague. The betrothal was announced a few weeks ago.”

  That made no sense.

  Who the hell was Caroline Montague?

  Chapter Eight

 
Andie

  AFTER HEARING THE news of Frederick’s betrothal, I sat immobile, absorbing the news in shocked silence as my smoothieless stomach began to grumble. My mother had attached a Daily Mail news story to her text message and though I didn’t want to, I read it. It highlighted the life and love of Caroline Montague and chronicled her high society British upbringing. Her father, while not titled himself, had invented the software used in most vending machines, and subsequently leveraged his earnings to put his hand in just about every business operating in London. She was worth more than most countries and the news story hinted that their betrothal would unite two illustrious European families, from the old world and the new.

  There was a photo of Freddie and Caroline from their teenage years at the very bottom of the article. Apparently they’d been friends since childhood and it had come as a shock to no one when their families announced the betrothal. Caroline Montague was beautiful with delicate features and long blonde hair. She was styled “The People’s Princess Diana”, beloved by all and philanthropic to the core. How lovely.

  I wanted to feel heartbroken and betrayed by the news. My gut told me I’d been wronged, but then common sense chimed in and leveled with me. I was not in love with Frederick Archibald. People do not fall in love overnight. I was merely excited by the idea of Freddie the same way I got excited by two-for-one ice cream sundaes at McDonald’s. I couldn’t fault myself for it. I had working lady parts and a pulse, therefore the sight of Frederick Archibald had seemed alluring. No big deal. I could move on. There were plenty of other fish in the sea (probably the most applicable that phrase would ever be). The games were filled with sexy athletes whose only baggage was of the carryon variety. Sure, Freddie’s jaw was chiseled from Grecian marble and his boyish grin had topped a BuzzFeed poll in 2014 entitled “Panty-Melting Smiles”, but there were plenty of attractive people in Rio. Thousands of them, in fact. On to the next.

  “Andie, yoohoo! Earth to Andie.”

  I glanced up to find Kinsley staring at me over the back of the couch. Becca sat beside her, flipping through TV channels at a rate that made my eyes water.

  “Becca and I found this really good Netflix documentary series about baby arctic whales, and if we start it tonight, we can probably finish all the episodes before we head back to L.A.”

  She seemed really excited about the prospect, but there was no way I was joining them. I was putting the finishing touches on a sandwich in our condo’s tiny kitchen, and instead of replying, I took a giant bite and offered her a vague head nod.

  “Wait. Why are you dressed like you’re going out?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

  Becca turned back to assess me as well and I swallowed down the glob of peanut butter lodged in my throat.

  “Oh. Well.” I glanced down at my jean cutoffs and a cream, off-the-shoulder blouse. “Because I am.”

  Kinsley threw up her arms. “But Liam will be over here soon, and you are supposed to be our little baby beluga.”

  “I thought you loved whales,” Becca added.

  They knew I had a love for whales and they’d likely picked the series because they thought I needed cheering up. They assumed I was upset about Freddie’s betrothal, but I couldn’t have been further from upset. I didn’t need to mope around our condo like my love life was over, because in fact, it was just getting started. I’d received an invitation on Facebook to a poker night hosted by a few members of the Portuguese men’s soccer team, and there was no way I was going to pass up that opportunity. They were all tall, tan, and ridiculously handsome. I hadn’t played poker in years, but I figured I could skirt by on luck long enough to find a replacement for my Rio boy-toy. I mean, what isn’t cute about two soccer players in love? Nothing, as evidenced by Kinsley and Becca’s storybook romances.

  “As fun as the documentary sounds, I think I’m going to go out.”

  They frowned in tandem.

  “Look, I don’t expect you guys to understand. You’re both married, and well, boring.”

  “Hey!” Becca said.

  I threw them an apologetic smile. “I mean, it’s the truth. If you guys were single, you’d be coming to this poker night with me.”

  “Not true,” Kinsley argued.

  I laughed. “Right. Let’s see. Remember when you broke the rules to date Liam Wilder even though he was your college soccer coach?”

  Becca burst out laughing, but Kinsley turned and narrowed her bright blue eyes on me. “That was different.”

  I shrugged. “It just seems strange that you’re so adamantly against me going out and meeting a cute guy here when you both have had your fair share of fun.”

  Becca hummed in thought. I knew I was making a valid point.

  “I just think I should get the choice to make the most of being in Rio.”

  Kinsley nodded. “You’re right. But just so you know, you’re gorgeous, Andie. And I’m not just saying that because I like you. You could be betrothed to a million Freddie Archibalds if you wanted to be.”

  I shook my head. “Thanks for your confidence in my polygamy skills, but really, I’m not even thinking about that—him—any more.”

  “And if you want to go out and have fun, be my guest, but I’m not going to stop being overprotective of you. I made a promise to your mom that I’d watch out for you while we’re down here.”

  “My mom called you?!”

  Kinsley shot me a glare. “Christy has me on speed dial.”

  Of course. I should have known.

  I grabbed my small clutch from the dresser in my room and then slipped on my favorite pair of brown leather flip-flops. When I walked back into the living room, Kinsley and Becca stared up at me, assessing my outfit.

  “You’re wearing a bra right?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “And underwear? Are they your own this time?” Becca asked.

  I ignored them and walked to the door.

  “Stay safe. Text us and don’t stay out too late. We have an early practice tomorrow.”

  “Wow you really have been talking to Christy lately,” I teased over my shoulder just as a knock sounded on the door. As anticipated, Liam stood on the other side with a bag full of takeout clutched in hand. He’d just showered and his hair was damp and mussed up a bit. Kinsley had definitely gotten lucky with him. I smiled and stole a handful of French fries as I sneaked past into the hallway.

  “Hey! Wait. Aren’t you watching the documentary thing with us?” he asked.

  “No, unlike you losers, I actually have plans.”

  “Stay safe!” he shouted as I leaned forward to press the elevator call button.

  Staying safe wasn’t really hard to do. While Rio at large had issues with crime, the village in contrast was secure and locked down after 8:00 PM. Athletes were free to roam as they pleased. The Portuguese guys were assigned a condo two buildings down from mine. The breeze from the ocean picked up my hair and blew it every which direction. I twisted the long strands in a low bun to keep them from sticking to my lipstick. I’d kept it simple in the makeup department. I still had a tan from outdoor practices back home, so I didn’t have to worry about foundation. I’d swiped on a subtle shade of red lipstick and mascara, and felt confident as I rode the elevator up to the third floor.

  The noise from their condo could be heard even before I stepped off the elevator. I double-checked the Facebook invite and confirmed that the rowdy, bass-filled condo was the one I was supposed to be heading toward. 312. I offered a soft knock on the door though I knew it would go unheard. After another try, I turned the handle and stepped inside, surprised by the butterflies that swarmed my stomach as I entered.

  Though the music was blaring, the condo was far less crowded than the Rubik’s Cube party had been the night before. There were a few guys in the kitchen mixing up a batch of sangria in a cooler on the floor. They waved me in and pointed to the living room where the rest of the party unfolded before me.

  The soccer guys had pushed all the furnitur
e aside to make room for three poker tables. I was running a little late, so the first two tables were already full of people drinking and talking and waving at me as I passed. I slid through the gaps in the chairs and headed for the last table where four empty chairs were waiting to be claimed.

  I was about to take a seat when a hand reached out to grab my arm. I turned over my shoulder and came face to face with a tan, smiling guy I recognized from the Facebook invite. I couldn’t remember his name, but he was definitely on the Portuguese national team.

  “Hey,” he said warmly.

  He looked handsome, but it was hard to tell with the throwback green visor on his head—a prop for poker night. A few other guys around the living room had them on as well.

  “Hey. I’m Andie.”

  He shook my hand and did a poor job of concealing his gaze as it slid down my body.

  “Andie Foster,” he said with a smile. “I was hope to having you here.” He spoke in choppy English with a thick, seductive accent.

  He pulled my chair out for me and took one of the open seats beside me.

  “I’m Nathan Drake.”

  My brows rose in shock. Nathan Drake was a popular name and though I hadn’t noticed him at first—probably because of his visor—I’d definitely seen him on a few commercials; he was a heavily sponsored European soccer player in the same stratosphere as David and Liam.

  My reaction to his name made him smile wider, revealing a pair of perfectly straight teeth and a single dimple that rimmed the edge of his lips. I was staring there as he spoke up again.

  “You have done poker playing before?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Not recently, but I’m hoping I can keep up.”

  I glanced around the table to check out my competition. Poker was a wise choice for an international party, as the game could be played primarily with universal hand signals and gestures. Fortunately, no one seemed like they’d be taking the game too seriously, and Nathan assured me we wouldn’t be playing with real money.

  Our table was split evenly between three girls and three boys.