Desperately Seeking Mr. Right (Destined For Love: Europe) Read online

  Copyright

  Desperately Seeking Mr. Right © 2017 Sally Johnson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Pink Bloom Publishing.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations, events and dialogue in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously.

  Edited by Sarah EH Lyons

  Cover design © 2017 Steven Novak

  Layout and Formatting by LJP Creative

  Published by Pink Bloom Publishing

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  First Edition May 2017

  ASIN: B06Y51HMJC

  To Tom Holland

  My daughter, Audrey, would love

  to mix up luggage with you.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Destined for Love Series

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books By Sally Johnson

  About the Author

  Meet Me at Sunrise Preview

  Chapter One

  Chapter One

  My dream was turning into a nightmare.

  I watched the luggage turnstile stop, but I had yet to see my luggage. My stomach tightened as I wondered what I should do. I waited a few minutes, willing the turnstile to start up again, as if there were a second load of suitcases coming. But it didn’t.

  I walked around the turnstile, hoping I had somehow missed my suitcase as it had gone by. After all, it was a non-descript, roll-around black canvas suitcase. Maybe someday I would splurge and buy the pink polka dot luggage set I wanted, but I had splurged on this trip to London and decided to make do with the boring, black luggage I already owned.

  Looking around, I felt overwhelmed and defeated at the same time. This trip was supposed to be an adventure. I had planned it carefully—had looked forward to it. And I was not going to let some temporary frustration allow the negative voice in my head to chant, “I told you so.” I could do this. Tons of tourists came to London every year, and they were able to manage.

  I finally located a bag on the other side of the turnstile, lodged under an edge. It must have come out so fast that it had gotten stuck. Since I didn’t want to assume it was my bag—even if it was the only bag—I checked the luggage tag for confirmation. I was overjoyed to see the words This bag belongs to: Phoebe Bryan. I hefted it and cursed myself for packing way too much. I was only going to be in London for eight days.

  As I followed the signs to the passenger pick-up area to meet my hotel shuttle, I recognized a few people on my New Jersey to Heathrow flight. There was the sweet, old couple who looked identical to each other, probably because of their matching silver hair and paper-white skin. They had sat across the aisle from me on the plane and kept trying to feed me Nilla Wafers. Then there was the mom who looked younger than me, who had endlessly bounced her fussy baby up and down the aisle. Every time I nodded off, her baby would start crying. And then I recognized the handsome face with the Boston Red Sox baseball cap, who sat in the very last row by the bathrooms and always seemed to be sleeping. Just the sight of familiar faces, even though they were strangers, gave me comfort. They made me feel less alone.

  When I arrived at passenger pick-up, the shuttle company had a sign with my name and a few others scrawled on it. Seeing my name helped push down some of the anxiety growing inside of me. I didn’t want to be stranded at a foreign airport and not know how to get to my hotel.

  I was the last to enter the bus. The driver took my bag and set it with the rest of the luggage. I glanced back and saw the bus wasn’t very full. I recognized the cute guy with the Red Sox cap, but he wasn’t looking up. He was staring intently at his phone, tapping the screen.

  There was also a family. The mom and dad looked as if they had dropped everything on the floor the moment they sat down. They had two worn backpacks, not upright, and then two kid backpacks, each sporting a TV show character.

  As soon as the driver shut the door and put the bus into gear, the fatigue hit me. My head felt fuzzy, my throat dry and swollen, my eyelids heavy. I leaned my head back against the window just to rest for a moment.

  “Mooom,” the girl cried. “Matt keeps touching my backpack with his foot.”

  I didn’t open my eyes to see the scene. I could imagine it clearly.

  “Matt, don’t do that,” the mom said, her voice weary.

  We must have hit a pothole, because we jolted suddenly.

  “He did it again—see? Did you see it, mom?”

  This time I did open my eyes. I rolled my head in their direction and peeked out from under my lids.

  The mom grabbed the boy’s knee. “Enough,” she snapped.

  The dad, meanwhile, was either asleep or pretending to sleep. He didn’t flinch. His head was resting in his hand, propped against the wall of the bus.

  I turned my attention back to my own thoughts. The ride from Heathrow to our hotel was supposed to be twenty-five minutes. I fought falling asleep. I had this fear I would miss my stop and end up lost somewhere in London.

  I kept myself awake by checking my phone. It beeped at me when I turned it on. The battery was in the red and informed me it was “critically low.” I hoped it would stay on long enough to check my texts. I had two new messages. One was from my mom, telling me to text her when I arrived. The other was from my best friend, Evangeline. It was a warning: Don’t even think about watching that show. My phone flashed another low battery alert, then completely died.

  “Ow!” screeched the boy. “She poked me.”

  I put my phone away and watched the family intently, curious of what drama would unfold.

  “Enough,” the mom hissed. “Ted. Do you think you could wake up long enough to help?”

  The dad open his eyes halfway and scowled at his wife. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Tell them to cut it out!”

  The dad looked from the boy to the girl. “Cut it out.”

  I didn’t know how effective he was at parenting, but if he felt like me, he was too tired to deal with much of anything.

  “Calf slap!”

  “He hit me!”

  It went on—brother annoying sister, mom scolding children, dad escaping into sleep. I was thankful when we pulled up to the hotel and they didn’t stand.

  The driver took a couple of bags off the bus and set them on the sidewalk. I grabbed my suitcase and darted for the hotel.

  The entryway’s ceiling was filled with rows of shiny, bare lightbulbs, glowing like a marquee sign. But these lights nowhere near prepared me for the lobby. The room was lit like Times Square at night. It was like the set for the reality TV show, Desperately Seeking Mrs. Right, which I had recently been on. The ceiling was vaulted, probably upwards of three floors. There were two pairs of massive white, marble columns, flanking the marble floor on each side. There was also a round table in the center of the lobby surrounded by a low, circular, chartreuse velvet couch. An oversized floral arrangement served as a centerpiece on the table, with a huge crystal chandelier hanging above it. Off to the sides be
hind the pillars was a seating area with upholstered armchairs and coffee tables angled to drive conversation.

  I stepped up to the front desk, which matched the marble from the floor. The wall behind the desk was covered in thousands of iridescent circular chips, with three rows of lights hanging down from fiber-thin wires. The chips reflected the light, reminding me a little of fish scales—tastefully done fish scales. But they made everything just a little too bright.

  A man behind the desk greeted me. “How may I help you, ma’am?” His name tag read Nigel.

  “I’m Phoebe Bryan. I’m here to check in.”

  “Very well.” Nigel nodded. “If I could see a picture ID and a major credit card, I’ll have you checked in immediately.”

  “Thank you.” I handed him the cards, then leaned an arm on the counter. It took all my effort not to fall asleep against the desk.

  I thanked him when he returned my ID, and credit card and passed me a key card, then grabbed my bag and made my way to the elevator and up to my room. I opened the door to an elegant, yet simple, room, complete with a small writing desk, an arm chair, and a glorious king-size bed. Although, it could have been a closet with a cot and I wouldn’t have cared. I just needed to sleep.

  I dropped my bags a few steps into the room. After a slow, exasperated sigh, I fumbled through my carry-on and retrieved my phone charger cord and foreign adaptor. I wondered if I was supposed to plug in the adaptor first and then the cord or vice versa. I also wondered what my odds were for causing a power outage or an electrical fire. I took a chance on the first approach and was pleased when the phone powered up rather than exploded. I sent a quick text to my mom before folding down the bedsheets.

  I made it.

  My phone buzzed without missing a beat. How was the flight?

  Fine, once we actually took off. Boarding was delayed, and we sat on the tarmac for twenty-five minutes.

  The ping on my phone startled me. I had drifted off to sleep.

  That’s inconvenient.

  It was. I stretched out on the bed. Be in touch tomorrow morning. Goodnight.

  I smelled like stale fast food and sweat, but I didn’t care. I was jetlagged and desperate for some sleep, so I rolled over and closed my eyes.

  Tomorrow, all will be well, I told myself. I would be rested, I could shower, have clean clothes, and I could go off exploring on my adventure of a lifetime.

  I woke up, confused. And tired. And groggy. I looked at the clock with bleary eyes. One o’clock. Is that a.m. or p.m.? It was light outside, and I imagined it must have been after noon. I flopped back on the pillow, dismayed at wasting half a day sleeping. I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the clock again. This time it read 10:01 a.m. I had misread it the first time. I was off by a couple of hours, but I felt better knowing it was still morning. Kind of.

  I stumbled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom, squinting as I turned on the lights. I noted the bags under my eyes, the tangled brown mess called my hair, the sizeable wrinkles in my clothes that I hadn’t changed since before my flight from Jersey. I was relieved, knowing a refreshing shower was minutes away. I squatted down by my suitcase and unzipped it.

  Someone had been in my bag or at least rearranged it. The card stating it had been inspected by the TSA, was not in there. But I didn’t remember packing an olive-green t-shirt, tube socks, or a kilt.

  Wait.

  I froze. These weren’t mine. The shirt, the socks—obviously not the kilt. How did that get there?

  I shuffled through the bag: grey sweats, a white dress shirt, men’s underwear—I dropped the stack immediately, realizing these were the contents of a man’s suitcase. Definitely not my bag. I scrubbed my hands against my thighs and then read the ID tag. Bryan Edwards.

  I had grabbed the wrong suitcase when I got off the shuttle.

  I realized my mistake: our names were similar, and we both had similar taste in bags. It was an easy mistake to make and, hopefully, an easy mistake to fix. All I had to do was call the guy and arrange a bag switch. No. Big. Deal. “Okay,” I said out loud. “I can fix this.” I think. I searched the luggage tag for the contact information.

  I picked up my cell phone but then put it down. I couldn’t remember who got off at the same hotel as me, but maybe he was a guest here. It was worth a try, so I called the front desk.

  “Bryan Edwards’ room please,” I rasped, my voice still thick with sleep.

  “Please hold,” said the British host on the other end.

  Moments later, a strange, shrill tone rang on the line and then cut out.

  “Hello?” A smooth voice answered—an American voice. And he didn’t sound groggy like me.

  I cleared my throat. “Hi—um—I have your bag,” I said.

  “Are you holding it hostage?” he asked slowly.

  I laughed at his unexpected response. “No, I’m not holding it hostage. I grabbed the wrong bag last night and am hoping you got mine by mistake.”

  “Should I know who this is?”

  My laugh tittered. “Sorry. My name is Phoebe Bryan. I was calling Bryan Edwards. I’m at the Grand Park Plaza Hotel. I assume you are too since the front desk connected me to your room.”

  “Phoebe Bryan.” He seemed to mutter to himself. “Yes, I have your bag.”

  “Oh, good,” I exhaled, relieved and excited. It was a simple mix up that could be unmixed in minutes. “Can I meet you in the lobby for the exchange?”

  He chuckled. “You make it sound like a hostage situation.” At least he had a sense of humor about it.

  “I won’t charge you for the mix up,” I joked.

  “Five minutes?” he suggested.

  “Yes, great! I’ll be wearing a mint and white-striped shirt.” I hung up the phone and quickly sprang to action. I haphazardly brushed my hair, smoothed my rumpled clothes, and grabbed my key card. I hurried down to the lobby, dragging his suitcase behind me.

  Chapter Two

  The lobby was busier than I had anticipated. Conscious of my bedraggled appearance, I skulked over to the circular chartreuse couch and waited. Compared to the pristine and brilliant appearance of the lobby, I was out of place. The men passing by looked sharp in their business suits. A woman walked by with two children—her blond hair pulled back into a smooth bun and the kids perfectly groomed in their pressed outfits. And then there was me in my rumpled, smelly clothes, ripe from a day’s worth of travel.

  I drummed my fingers against my leg, anticipating Bryan’s arrival. I wasn’t worried about meeting a stranger. We were in a public place. It would be fine. But then again, I had been questioning my gut feelings so much lately that I didn’t trust my own decisions.

  “Excuse me, miss,” a man with a deep voice appeared at my side. I could tell from his accent he was British, as most people in London would be. But I realized I made that distinction because I was clearly waiting for an American. This obviously wasn’t him.

  “Can I help you?” I asked. I smoothed the hem of my shirt.

  “Actually, I was going to ask you the same question.” He raised an eyebrow and looked over the rim of his glasses, which were perched on the end of his nose. He was dressed in a black suit with a white dress shirt. The name tag on his jacket betrayed him as a hotel employee.

  “No.” I shook my head. “I’m fine, thank you. I don’t need any help.”

  He folded his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. “We have a strict policy that only hotel guests are permitted to relax in the lobby.”

  “That sounds like a great policy,” I said, scanning the room to guess which guest could be Bryan.

  He leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “We don’t permit rough sleepers to loiter in the lobby.”

  I was confused. Or maybe it was just the jet lag. “Rough sleepers? I don’t kno
w if it was that rough of sleep. I just know I was so tired I could’ve slept on a concrete slab.”

  “Precisely what I mean. If you intend to linger and loiter, you must be a guest of the hotel.”

  “But I am.” I pointed to the suitcase two feet away from me.

  “You just told me you slept on a concrete slab. For the safety of our guests, we cannot allow homeless people—”

  “It was just an expression. Wait”—I straightened and cocked my head—“you think I’m homeless?”

  “Isn’t that why you’re here? As I observed, you were looking around nervously, fidgeting, and you appear—”

  “Excuse me,” I said firmly, my cheeks burning. “I am a guest at this hotel—already registered and checked in. I was pacing because there was a mix up with my bag and another guest’s bags, and we’re meeting here to clear that up. My appearance is due to a long day of traveling, plus flight delays, plus jet lag, plus one misplaced bag.”

  He ducked his head and dropped his voice to a quiet tone. “I beg your pardon, miss. We’ve had quite a problem recently with vagrants, so we try to be vigilant to make this a pleasant place for our guests.”

  I smoothed my hair. “Well, you can be assured that I should be here.”

  “Again, I sincerely apologize. I didn’t mean to—to—” he paused, then bowed slightly. “Might I correct this by giving you two certificates for breakfast?”

  My stomach grumbled. The idea of breakfast quickly diffused any ire experienced moments before. I smiled, appreciative of his gesture. “That would be wonderful,” I said.

  He dismissed himself but returned quickly with two slips of paper. “Here you are, miss. And again, I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you.”

  I took them and thanked him. I guess the bedraggled look had its benefits.

  “So, we finally meet,” said a voice from behind.