Judge Me, Abby Knox [i love reading txt] 📗

doesn’t need to be so protective of me anymore. He would be correct.

“Yes! Doesn’t that make you want to protect your only daughter from getting hurt? I looked it up; he’s forty-eight years old! Older than you!”

“Huh,” Dad repeats. I know that sound. He strokes his beard. And then I hear the smile in his voice. “You know, she’d be well looked after. He’ll probably treat her better than those creepy dude comedians at the Chuckle Bucket. And she’s always wanted to go to England.”

Mom clucks, “That’s because she’s been holding out for that man! I’m telling you, the fantasy is out of control!”

“I tell you what,” Dad says, sighing and folding up his newspaper. “How about if she does go to England and is subsequently humiliated, then you can say I told you so, and I can finance a brand new car of her choice. It’s the least we can do for her, with all of the debt she’s acquired from improv classes, acting classes…”

I run at him, throwing my arms around the only person besides my sister Diana who truly gets me.

My mother shakes her head. “You spoil her rotten.”

Dad’s face, however, beams with irrepressible sunshine, just like mine. “Knock ‘em dead, princess.”

And now, here I am, getting ready to knock ‘em all dead.

I have been saving myself for Phillip Wildwood, and my day has finally come.

I am in London, on my way to meet the man himself. Well, according to my itinerary, I’m actually in the English countryside, somewhere near a place called Warwickshire. Don’t ask me to pronounce it.

After the butler shows me to my room in the wing where the six other American contestants are staying, I decide to explore. Sitting on a plane for that long has me ready to climb the walls. We’re all supposed to meet in the ballroom in thirty minutes to be briefed by the show’s producers, so I’m sure I can fit in a quick walk around the grounds. To get into the spirit, I’ve borrowed this kickass Victorian dress from my friend’s theater troupe. What other time in my life will I have the opportunity to roam around a place that looks like a historical film set, dressed as a noble lady? Never. And also? This thing makes my boobs look amazing.

The castle grounds do not disappoint. A stunning rose garden lies hidden beyond a hill at the back of the castle, facing a small lake that’s smooth as glass apart from a group of swans gliding across the surface. It occurs to me I might not be able to find my way back to the ballroom, but I don’t care. The scent of the enormous blooms overwhelms me, and I have the urge to lie down in the grass and take it all in.

The breeze is so lovely, the sky so blue, and I’m actually here, at the home of my one true love. He just doesn’t know it yet.

I close my eyes and inhale the scent of roses, wondering what I’m going to say when I finally meet my Phillip.

Chapter Four

Phillip

Today’s the day, and a sudden panicky feeling has overwhelmed me that I’ve taken this whole thing too far.

As I pace back and forth in my room, I can’t think of a single word in the way of introduction.

When Chloe finds out that I’ve manipulated this entire process just to meet her, she’ll be running back to Heathrow. Justifiably.

A few weeks ago, I perused the audition videos, one after the other. About fifty unbearable videos in, I spotted her. Not a prize-winning baker with any domestic credentials to speak of, but a winner in all other immeasurable ways. Long dark hair framed a pair of deep soulful eyes, perky nose, and full lips turned up in an impish grin. She wore a frilly apron, joking and babbling her way through a disastrous cooking demonstration. At one point, she set a sauté pan on fire by accident. She put it out with the apron—while she was still wearing it—and continued on with her life story without missing a beat, as if nothing alarming was happening.

On that day, I didn’t know her name, and I didn’t care. She looked like a nightmare in the kitchen, and I didn’t care about that either. I just knew I had to have her.

Sure, I could have tracked her down instead of inviting her here under the pretense that she has any chance of winning a baking competition. Problem is, I’m so terrible at meeting women, I honestly don’t know which would be creepier.

I am so nervous about meeting the woman of my dreams that I have to walk off my anxiety. The director has scheduled me to meet the contestants in the ballroom in thirty minutes—enough time for a quick jaunt.

I’ve thought about nothing else since seeing Chloe’s audition tape.

I decide to take a stroll through the rose garden, as it always calms my nerves. As I reach the far end of the garden, I see a scene that looks straight out of a Victorian novel. A young woman in a long empire-waist dress lies in the tall grass.

As I get closer, I freeze in my tracks. It’s Chloe. But that’s…

Don’t say impossible, you nitwit. Of course it’s possible. You pulled every string to get her here. And now, she’s here.

She’s not supposed to be here, precisely. She’s supposed to be in the ballroom, waiting for me. “What the hell are you doing in my rose garden?”

The woman sits bolt upright, eyes wild, hair mussed, her dress covered in grass.

“What! Where am I!?”

Oh, dear. I’ve startled the poor girl. Perhaps I was a bit too gruff.

“You’re in my rose garden. And if I’m not mistaken, I believe you’re mine. I mean, I believe you’re my contestant. One of the contestants. For the show.”

Oh god. I’m making a complete fool of myself now.

She rubs her face and looks up at me, then her eyes