Chapter 1
Mr Toe Sucker
"May I suck your toes?"
I blinked. It was the best response I could come up with under the circumstances. After all, it wasn't every day I got such a proposition from a date, and a first date at that. Wasn't the first date limited to hand-holding and a quick, awkward peck on the lips if things went well? Granted, I'd been out of the scene for a while, but things couldn't have changed that much in the last couple of years, could they? Or maybe British men had different standards of dating than American ones?
Date number—what was it now?—six gave me what he probably thought was a charming smile. As far as I was concerned, it was just plain creepy. He'd seemed so normal, too, with his cheap, ill-fitting black suit, pale blond hair in need of a trim, and silver-rimmed glasses that made his brown eyes appear a little buggy. Accountant, he'd said. Well, first he'd said he was in finance, which sounded a lot more lucrative and exciting than accountant, but it hadn't taken me long to figure out the truth. I'd presumed accountant equaled boring. Safe. Even if he did have a sexy British accent. And now he wanted to suck my toes in the middle of a busy London tube.
Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe I shouldn't have had that second glass of sauvignon blanc. Or was it third? It was hard to keep track when your date was rambling on about the positive side of Hitler and the Nazi regime. Really, I should have called the whole thing off then and there, but lately I'd started to worry I was being too picky about men. If I didn't loosen up, I was going to end up alone. After six dates with six different men, I was beginning to think being alone wasn't such a bad thing.
Give the guy a chance, I'd told myself. Don't be so judgmental. Maybe he's a nice guy. I really needed to stop listening to own idiotic ideas.
I quickly glanced around at our fellow travelers on the Central Line. The car was full, and I was positive everyone had overheard my date's request. He hadn't exactly been subtle about it. Or quiet. But only one person was paying any attention. I was suddenly snared by a pair of amused green eyes. Good Lord. You could cut diamonds with those cheekbones. No one has the right to be that ridiculously good-looking. Clearing my throat I turned back to my date, ignoring the fact that Mr. Cheekbones was listening to every word.
"Excuse me?" Maybe I hadn't heard right. Maybe I'd fallen into an alternate universe. It could happen, right?
"May I suck your toes, Kate?" My date repeated, gazing longingly at the toes in question, the husky timber of his voice telling me how excited he was by the prospect. Ew. I shifted in my seat uncomfortably. And not just because of the lack of cushion.
"My toes?" I stared down at my feet, the toes peeping out between the straps of my shoes. They were okay, as far as toes went. A little on the stubby side. I'd painted the nails burgundy only last night. The color looked good against my pale skin and matched the flowers on my sundress. A silver ring graced the middle toe of my left foot. The weather in London had been unbearably hot and humid lately. Sandals had become my best friend. The gold gladiators were rather nice, if I did say so myself, but certainly not toe-sucking nice.
They were also filthy. The toes, not the shoes. Although the gladiators were probably pretty dirty, too, come to think of it. Walking around London all day in sandals did that. The very idea of someone putting my dirty toes in his mouth grossed me out. Especially as he'd probably want a snog after. Fat chance. Might as well pick up a piece of gum off the pavement and chew it. I shuddered.
"Uh, I don't think so —" What was his name again? "Charles. They're filthy." I shrugged apologetically, figuring that would be the end of it.
"I don't mind." He looked a little too eager for my liking. His muddy brown eyes got even bigger behind the lenses of his glasses, and his cheeks turned a little pink. He was very obviously getting turned on at the mere thought of sucking on my grimy feet.
Oh, Lord. He's one of those. I'd heard of foot fetishists, but this was the first time I'd experienced one in the flesh, so to speak. Frankly, it was a little baffling. Even more baffling than him gushing over my American accent. Most Londoners mocked my pronunciations and hard R's, but Charles seemed to think it was hot, which had naturally been a point in his favor. So far, the only real point in his favor.
"I mind. Besides"—I glanced around the nearly full car, catching Mr. Cheekbones staring at me again. Why couldn't I get a date with a guy like that? Because he's way out of your league, you idiot—"there are people watching." I'd never been entirely comfortable with public displays of affection and toe-sucking went way beyond that. What was next? Shagging in an alleyway?
"That's fine with me," Charles said earnestly. He gazed down at my feet in a way that made me more than slightly uncomfortable. I shifted in my seat again, wishing like anything the Tube would hurry up and get to my stop. Ew, creeper.
It wasn't the toe-sucking I minded. I considered myself to be rather open-minded about these things and figured it could probably be fun under the right set of circumstances. Like the kind of circumstances where one's feet were clean and one was in a private setting like, say, a bedroom. It was the public location I had issue with. And the dirt. And Charles himself, if I were perfectly honest. I
