Free The Perfect Blend by Allie Pleiter Page A

Will says, taking great care to unfold one leg without knocking over the entire table. “Every ounce of testosterone in my body is working in overdrive to maintain the manly dignity currently under fire in my present surroundings.”
    I’m pretty sure I’ve just been chastised.
    Those steely eyes pin me to my chintz. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Miss Black, but men drink tea. Men enjoy tea. In the orient, men spend years studying and mastering the art of tea. I drink tea. I like tea. I do not like coffee. And no matter how many tiny cucumber sandwiches you subject me to, no matter how much lace you surround me with, I am a man—an Englishman. I drink tea. I’m fine with that. And those facts will not change. ” His smile is gleaming and victorious. “Although, I’d have suggested a far less flattering frock if you were looking to do me in.” He takes a bite, “mmm”ing in such a way that our waitress erupts in more blushing giggles. “Against all odds, I find myself rather enjoying the afternoon.”
    Flattering frock? Frock? Did he just compliment my dress?
    I have to give this guy serious credit. Any one ofmy brothers would be frying like an ant under a magnifying glass if this happened to them. And he’s “rather enjoying the afternoon.”
    I have underestimated my opponent. It is battle we’re in, isn’t it?
    â€œI’d be remiss if I didn’t extend an invitation in return, wouldn’t I?” Will says, taking another bite. How did he gain control of the conversation like that? “You do own a pair of trainers, don’t you?” He pulls out a pen and begins to write something down on the back of a business card.
    â€œA what?”
    â€œTrainers.” He squints in thought for a moment. “Athletic shoes. Sneakers, I believe you call them?”
    â€œUm, yes.”
    â€œSplendid. And you’re free tomorrow afternoon around three?”
    â€œI get off work at two.”
    Never, never underestimate your banker.
    Or take him to tea.
    Â 
    â€œOh, no.”
    â€œNo, really, Maggie, I think this is definitely what you need.”
    I am suddenly aware of the near-foot Will Grey has over me. I’m not short, but he’s tall. They’re all tall. All of them have Will’s height, but most of them are twice as heavy. I’m standing in a patch of grass staring at a line of enormous men. Human fortresses in striped shirts. “No sirree, what I need is to stay clear of rugby fields for the rest of my life.”
    â€œPitch, actually. Rugby pitch. And conversely, I think getting on a rugby pitch is exactly what you need. Back on the horse that threw you, as it were.”
    â€œThere will be no throwing of anything in my presence. Show a little mercy here, the bruises are finally fading.”
    â€œYeah,” says a man I instantly recognize as my assailant, Arthur Sumners. “Really sorry about that. And so,” Arthur grins, “show ’er, boys.”
    With that the line of men steps aside to reveal a bench with six rugby balls on it. Each taped down—repeatedly—with multiple strips of duct tape. Half of them are snickering, the other half are staring at Will, who merely salutes me. “Precautionary measures,” he states. “You’re the only one allowed to hold the ball today.”
    Should I be flattered? Or frightened?
    â€œNow,” says Will, not quite keeping the laugh out of his voice, “This is a rugby pitch. It’s about the size of your football fields. Like football, you try to score points by getting your ball across the goal line, only we call it a ‘try’ instead of a touchdown. Any of those three brothers teach you to throw?”
    â€œYes,” I reply, slowly and suspiciously, not liking at all where this is going. I believe I’m being subjected to the anti-high tea here. Will goes on about fly-somethings, backward