Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
God, the silk lining of his jacket sliding against my nipples has turned me into a horny maniac. If he wanted to kiss me or wanted me to kiss him, he wouldn’t have wandered off, would he?
“Are you even listening?”
“Sorry,” I say, tuning back into Tamsin’s conversation. “I thought I saw Sandy for a minute. What were you saying?”
“Just that we’re here because your birthday party was a washout.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” I pull at the lapels on Niko’s jacket, wondering if my nipples are announcing their attention to everyone as some passing idiot’s eyes dip to my cleavage.
“He almost choked on his beer bottle.” Tamsin snorts.
“He should be watching where he’s going,” I answer haughtily. “Instead of staring at my boobs.”
“Hard not to stare,” Dex offers, appearing at Tamsin’s side. “I keep staring at them, and I’m not even into girls.”
“Look,” I say, turning to my friends. “If I’d kept my bra on, it would’ve spoiled the line.” I sweep my hand down the front of the jacket as though in proof. “It would’ve looked like I was wearing a man’s jacket rather than a dress.”
“Which you are,” Tamsin points out.
“But she does have a point.” Dex’s gaze flicks over me again. “She’s selling it.” He languidly lifts his hand, clicking his fingers approvingly. “She’s workin’ it.”
“Making men fall over because of it.” Tamsin’s gaze dips to my boobs. “Or rather because of them. Where’d you get the jacket from anyway?” She reaches out and fingers the fabric of the lapel. “Silk blend. That’s bespoke, or my name’s not Tamsin.”
“I thought your name was Tammy,” Dex taunts around the neck of his beer bottle.
“At least I haven’t got the name of a serial killer, Dexter.” We’d recently watched a new TV show of that name and (mostly) mild-mannered Dex had been horrified by association. “That jacket,” Tamsin says like a dog with a bone, “would’ve cost a fortune. Three grand, at least.”
“Trust you to know that,” I mutter, unsurprised. Tamsin is a textile technologist. The three of us had met while studying fashion at St. Martin’s College. Dex is now a junior buyer for Harrods, while I serve coffee and run errands at a local art gallery. But that’s what I get for ditching my degree. “And you’ve moved the buttons on it.”
“They’ll go back,” I protest. “It’s not like I’ve ruined it. A trip to the dry cleaner and it’ll be as good as new.” I glance away again.
“Yes, but whose jacket is it, Izzy? You went away looking like a drowned rat and came back looking like a cat that licked the cream. Or had cream licked from it.”
“Ew! It’s Sandy’s jacket, like I’ve already told you.” It was the best I could come up with at short notice.
“Is that the brother you’ve been trying to summon by staring longingly at the doors?”
“I just don’t want to miss him.” Where is he, anyway? Either of them; Niko or my brother. It’s so typical of Sandy not to turn up to his own birthday party.
“More like you’re pining for a lover,” Tamsin taunts, dragging me from my thoughts. “Is Sandy really your brother?”
“You know he is.”
“I know you’ve got a brother, and that his name is Sandy. But I’ve never actually met him. Dex hasn’t met him either, have you?”
“I saw a picture of him in the society pages once,” Dex offers. “He looked broodingly handsome.”
“Bad-tempered, you mean.” Sandy hates appearing in the society rags.
“See.” Tamsin ignores my interjection. “Five years we’ve known each other, and we’ve never met him.”
“Because he’s very busy.” And because I’ve always kept my life and my family at arm’s length of each other for the sake of my sanity.
“Because he’s a duke?”
“If you don’t believe me, check Debrett’s.”
“I know your brother is a duke,” she scoffs. “I just don’t necessarily believe that this is that duke’s party.”
“The family coat of arms is above the fireplace!” I say, swinging my arm out in that direction.
“I know this is some aristocrat’s house, Izzy.” She adds an airy wave encompassing the chandelier, the painted ceiling, and the huge portrait of one of my ancestors dressed in a robe à la Française. “I just wonder if we’re here to deliver your posh boy squeeze a booty call.”
“We’re here because my birthday bash was a washout.”
“You’re sure it’s not because your secret bae lives here? Your super snobby friend with benefits maybe?”
“While the dukedom has long been associated with debauchery,” I answer snippily, “it never extended to incest. As far as I know.”
“Eww!”
“This isn’t a birthday booty call. We’re here because I know Sandy won’t mind us drinking his champagne. And on that note, I’m going to get another glass.”
“I still need to meet him,” Tamsin calls after me. I wave without turning, heading for the bar in the ballroom.