The Art of Kissing Frogs: Notting Hill Diaries, #1

Acknowledgements

THIS BOOK HAS BEEN a long time in the making. The first germ of it appeared nearly eight years ago while I was living in London. Over the years so many people contributed to the story without even knowing it. I’d like to publicly thank them now.

To my APL gang (we escaped!), and my peeps at PEL, you are all amazing and made my cubicle days so much better. To my friends in Harrow. You welcomed me in your homes (do you regret that? Lol) and made me feel like one of you. To those who took me on grand adventures, and those who took me on really bad dates. And to two special ladies, Andrea and Dawn, who spent long hours talking and dreaming with me.

To all of you.

Thank you.

For JH who inspired one of the best characters I’ve ever written.

Long may you sparkle.

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 handholding 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 gosh. 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, ew. 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 should have ditched him the minute he complained about paying six pounds for a crappy Chinese dinner. I was pretty sure he’d picked the worst Chinese restaurant in the whole of London’s Chinatown just because it was cheap. Then he’d hinted at me paying half. I’d ignored him. I’d felt a little guilty at the time but figured I deserved it after the Hitler diatribe. I no longer felt guilty in the slightest.

Yeah, sorry. I don’t think so. I felt myself growing angry. Why the heck was I apologizing? I had nothing to be sorry for. I had every right to say no to something that made me uncomfortable. Open-mindedness and second chances be hanged.

I was suddenly having flashbacks to my marriage. Just thinking about it, my heart sped up, making my hands suddenly shaky. My throat grew tight, and I started sweating in places a lady is not supposed to sweat. I’d never stood up for myself, not once, no matter what my almost-ex-husband blamed me for. If the shirt he wanted wasn’t clean, it was my fault. If he was late for work, my fault. Everything I did was wrong, and I’d been made to feel guilty anytime I’d even thought about growing a backbone.

Another thing to add to the growing list of must work on. The flashbacks. And the standing up for myself. I was trying. Really I was.

Right then, Charles said as he not-so-subtly adjusted his trousers. How about a foot massage? I give really good ones.

I just bet he did. There was no way I was letting any body part of his near any part of mine. That would be pleasant, I lied through my teeth as the train pulled into Lancaster Gate Station. But look. Here’s my stop. Thanks for dinner, Charles. It was...nice. Boring, but more or less okay, other than Hitler and until the toe-sucking incident. See ya. I jumped up from my seat and made a dash for the double doors, squeezing out of the car before they slammed shut. The Tube pulled away from the station with a slight jerk, wheels screaming a little against the rails, sparks snapping and zinging. The gritty air had a faint grayish tinge and smelled vaguely of hot metal, but I was more or less used to it.

I caught Charles’s forlorn expression as the Tube slid away into the tunnel and out of sight. I felt a momentary stab of guilt which I ruthlessly squashed. That was the old Kate Miller. The doormat Kate Miller. The Kate Miller who’d managed to get herself dumped for a size two Brazilian chick with a big rack and ridiculously long legs. New Kate refused to feel guilty about ditching a perv, even if it meant getting out two stops early.

With a sigh of relief, I sank down on a nearby bench to wait for the next Tube to Notting Hill Gate. Dating was unbelievably exhausting. Especially when they turned out to be frogs.

How was it on a scale of one to ten? The rich baritone interrupted my thoughts.

Um, what? I glanced up, and I swear my heart stopped. Then it started thumping so hard, I thought it might explode, or I might break a rib or something. Mr. Cheekbones was standing over me, a friendly smile curving his luscious lips. His green eyes sparkled a little, and his golden blond hair held a hint of strawberry. My stomach decided to flip-flop around. I stared at him like an idiot, my mind totally blank.

May I? He nodded at the space beside me on the bench.

Uh, sure. I scooted over a little to make sure he had enough room. I wasn’t exactly slim in the hip department. What are you doing here? I could have smacked myself in the head for being so blunt.

This is my stop, he said, sitting next to me, smoothing his neatly pressed charcoal trousers. They were expensive, perfectly tailored. He smelled clean and delicious. Not like aftershave or anything, but like he was fresh from a shower and had used nothing but ordinary soap. His black shoes gleamed in the fluorescent lighting, likely a recent polish job. "I live just around the corner. What are you doing here?" He grinned, and my heart did a little somersault. He was just about the best looking man I’d seen since moving to London from the US and I suddenly felt all kinds of nervous.

Man, he had a sexy accent. You’d think I’d have been used to a British accent by now, but his voice was giving me goose bumps. Way better than Charles’s. I was trying to get away from my date. I’m sure you heard. I could have died of embarrassment. Melted into a puddle of goo on the dusty tiles of the Tube station.

He chuckled, the rich sound rolling over me. I could listen to him talk all day. Yes, I did. Interesting date. How was it on a scale of one to ten? One being worst date ever.

Oh, Charles? He was about a five, I said with a smile.

Is that all? Mr. Cheekbones’s eyes danced with laughter.

That made me giggle a little. Well, maybe a four. I’ve been on some seriously bad dates recently. Like always. I swear I had a Loser Magnet attached to my forehead, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I wanted him to think I was witty and experienced and all those things men supposedly want. Even though I knew I didn’t stand a chance.

I’m sorry to hear that. A beautiful lady like you should only date Prince Charmings.

I couldn’t help it. I rolled my eyes. What a line. No such thing. And anybody who tells you differently is either lying or needs to up their meds. Oh, there’s my train. I stood as the next Central Line Tube slid into the station. It was nice to meet you...uh...sorry.

Adam.

Adam. I rolled it around in my mouth, liking the way it felt. His name was as sexy as the rest of him. I needed to get the heck out of here before I made a fool of myself. Take care.

You, too.

With a smile, I turned around and hurried onto the Tube. As I stepped inside the carriage, he called, What’s your name?

Kate, I yelled back as the doors slid shut. I wasn’t sure he heard me, but I couldn’t help but watch Adam until he disappeared from view. That was the thing about London. Random conversations with strangers you’d never see again. Too bad he hadn’t asked for my number. But who was I kidding? He was way out of my league. It was one thing to demand quality, but a girl needed to be realistic. Still, I couldn’t help but replay our conversation over and over in my head all the way home.

THREE SETS OF EYES stared at me as I finished my tale. Three mouths made perfect O’s. No one said anything for the longest time, and then, as if a spell had been broken, all three men started talking at once.

Oh my gosh, girlfriend!

"He wanted to suck your toes? That’s revolting."

Seriously? You made that up.

I waved my hands to stem the tide. I swear. It really happened. I grinned. Welcome to my life. I sank into the overstuffed, purple velvet chair next to the picture window in the tiny living room. Outside, a taxi horn blared, and I heard the faint whine of a motorbike engine. I smiled, feeling something awfully like contentment. As big a nightmare as the date had been, entertaining a room full of guys with the tale of Mr. Toe Sucker had been great fun.

Raj crossed one leg neatly over the other and leaned back against the cream-colored sofa opposite me. He eyed me like I was a specimen under a microscope, his dark eyes suspicious. Good story, but you made it up, didn’t you?

You honestly think I could make something like that up? It happened just last week. And that’s not even the craziest date I’ve been on. How we’d ever gotten on the subject of my dating life was beyond me. It had started out as a regular old flatmate interview. Did they like me? Did I like them? Were any of us axe murderers? Somehow it had morphed into something entirely different. But hopefully they’d find me charming and ask me to move in. As much as I loved staying with my best friend, Chloe, sleeping on her couch was getting old.

Girlfriend, your life is more messed up than mine, said the reedy thin one with the spiky red hair and bubblegum pink shirt. I think his name was Kevin. No, Kev. He turned to the other two. I say yes. She’s perfect.

Raj and the third flatmate, James, exchanged glances. I was nervous. I needed to find a place to live, and this Notting Hill flat was the best place I’d seen within my budget. Besides, I really liked the guys—or at least Kev—and finding good flatmates was a challenge no matter how you sliced it.

She’s got my vote. James gave me a smile from his perch next to Raj on the arm of the sofa. He was a little on the plump side and had a twangy Northern accent. Yorkshire, maybe. He had very nice blue eyes hidden behind a pair of black-framed glasses and wore a gray T-shirt with a spaceship across the front of it. Girl needs serious help.

A pity vote. Still, I’d take it.

Raj sighed, crossing his arms and shaking his head. Fine. You’re in.

Relief flooded my system, making me feel more than a little giddy. At last. I finally had my own place. I could get off Chloe’s couch and settle in somewhere I could call my own.

Thanks, you won’t regret it. I promise.

Sweetie, Kev said, as long as you keep us entertained with dating stories, you’re golden.

I laughed. I can pretty much promise that.

Mr. Ancient Aliens

I’M NOT SAYING IT WAS aliens, my date said, swirling his fork through the puddle of toffee sauce I was eyeing greedily. But I believe the evidence is pretty clear.

It is? I took a gulp of Riesling, ignoring the burn as I downed it a little too fast.

Of course. All you have to do is look around.

I wasn’t sure where in the pub he expected me to find evidence of aliens, but I looked just in case. The building, now home to the Author’s Coffee House, had been built sometime in the 1700s. Long ago writers and poets, scientists and political radicals, had met there to rant over cups of java and plates of cakes. The wide-planked wood floors were smoothed not with varnish but with a thousand feet passing over them. The walls were dark wood and the ceilings timbered. It was dim and cozy, redolent with the scent of brewing coffee and baked goods. Voices were hushed as if in a library. Not exactly what I’d call a hotbed of alien activity.

My date, who’d introduced himself as Neville, was forty-one, into dance, music, Buddhism...all in all a fairly interesting person. He also liked to talk. And talk. And talk. Dear heavens, did the man love to talk.

Fortunately, he talked about interesting stuff. At least until he got to the aliens.

He seemed to fancy himself something of a psychic. He was convinced I believed in UFOs. Whether I actually did or did not believe in UFOs was completely beside the point. He had decided I believed