Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“Let me—”
“No.” I push at his arms, self-preservation, that other animal instinct, taking over.
His thumb retracts from the lace of my bra, slipping away from my nipple. My T-shirt falls as his hand smooths it over my hip, but he doesn’t move, our bodies still touching entirely too much.
“I don’t need revenge.”
Now he steps back, the air between us suddenly cool. “You’re sure about that?” His question sounds barely curious.
I nod and press my back against the wall as he reaches out, his thumb passing over my collarbone.
“That’s a shame,” he says, his gaze following the movement. “Because I’m afraid I do.” His charm is a satin sticky web, easy to fall into. Which is probably why it takes a beat for his next words to compute. “You will do this for me, Eve. You will give me three months of your time. Three months of you.”
“You don’t want me, not really.”
He chuckles. It sounds unkind.
“You just want to use me.”
“It doesn’t have to be so sordid. Why can’t we call it ‘helping each other’?”
“Whatever you call it, I don’t want any part.” I swipe at his arm, only for him to catch my wrist.
“Not even as a means to keep you in London?”
Anger zips down my spine. Romeo or the villain? he’d asked before. The man is no Romeo.
“This is ridiculous. I won’t do it.” I pull against his hold, but he doesn’t let go. So I force my arm to go limp, inadvertently acknowledging his power over me.
“You can, and you will because you’re the kind of person who can do anything they set their mind to.” He slips his fingers through mine as though we’re a courting couple.
“Don’t patronize me.”
“That was a compliment.”
“I’d sooner stick toothpicks under my toenails, then kick a wall, than be your fake anything.” Because he’s proving my point perfectly: rich men are nothing but trouble. And I already have enough.
“You’ll enjoy some of the benefits.” He lifts my hand to his mouth, pressing his teeth over my knuckles. I swallow, ignoring how everything pulls tight as his tongue flicks out. “Think of last night.”
“The difference is last night I wanted you. Past tense.” I dislike the wobble in my voice as I tug my hand away.
“We both know that’s not entirely true.” As his hand falls, his knuckles ghost over the pebble of my taut nipple. “We both know you’ll do what it takes to remain in London.”
I begin to make a show of patting over invisible pockets. “Gosh, why is it you can never find a crayon when you need it? You know, to draw little pictures to explain.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up, his only answer to my insult.
“Mitchell isn’t going to cause problems with my visa. It’s not his style.”
“Lovely Eve.” His words feel like a pat on the head. “You seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that I won’t.”
Chapter 11
OLIVER
A Little Bird Told Us . . .
hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!
Or a group of women scorned on behalf of our Shoreditch Pulse Tok bride, after a comical scene was reported at Brick Lane Market today.
A man (who looked suspiciously like the Pulse Tok cheating groom) was forced to abandon his takeout and run when an angry mob began to bombard him with fruit snatched from a nearby market stall.
Bystanders report the women had been celebrating a friend’s upcoming nuptials (bottomless brunch, maybe?) when they spotted him and reached for their weapons of choice. Some also struck up a chant of “dirty [expletive] french fry” while taunting him with their pinkie fingers.
Do we have our first sighting of our husband-not-to-be?
Did somebody catch it for posterity? Or us? Please say you did!
Come on, my lovely London flock—name that bride and groom!
Perhaps . . .
I put down my phone, conflicted. It’s only a matter of time before the gutter press are camped on Eve’s doorstep, given weddings are a matter of public record. Even the ones that don’t quite go through.
It still baffles me how Atherton managed to get her to the altar. Still, there’s nothing like a little outside persuasion. It can only help my cause, though it pains me to see that Atherton has put another woman through shit for his own means.
But Eve is made of altogether sterner stuff than Lucy.
Lucy. I put down my whisky glass, my thoughts turning as fiery as the liquid sliding down my throat. The man is a snake—a waste of flesh and air—and I have no fucking idea how women are continually taken in by him. Even if the messages he left on my phone do sound quite sincere. Not that I believe them for a minute. But it made my heart glad to hear him beg, because what he did to Lucy, involving her in his schemes, tearing us apart, makes me want to return the favor. It also makes my fingers itch with the desire to squeeze his windpipe, to make him feel some sense of the pain he caused.