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)
“You did this, not me. You. And don’t you ever call me babe again.” Balling my fists in my lap, I swing away. I doubt I could get a good shot from this angle, anyway.
“Evie, we need to talk about this. I know I’ve hurt you—that you deserve better.”
I make a derisive noise. I so want to punch him in the face. Why isn’t this car moving? The traffic in London is the absolute worst! As horns honk, and angry Londoners yell their displeasure, I glance out the window and realize we’re not crawling because of the traffic—we’re causing it.
“What we have is too good to throw away. Just give me five minutes,” Mitch pleads. “Let me explain.”
“I got all the explanation I needed this morning in fifty-two anonymous texts.” My voice sounds supremely cool, yet inside, my blood is boiling. Why won’t this stupid car just move?
“Please.”
“Go fuck yourself.” Making a scene and using vulgar language. My mother would be so proud.
The stranger’s fingers tighten again as though in reassurance. “Still against death by cabbie?”
“This has nothing to do with you, Deubel,” Mitchell grates out.
“And yet, here sits your fiancée.”
“Ex,” I correct. “Can we please go?” This time, my distress is not an act.
He turns to the driver. “Ted, we’re done here.”
And with that, Mitchell’s hands are forced to let go as the car speeds up.
“Only I would climb into the car of someone who knows Mitch,” I mutter, watching as the city passes by the window. Buildings and figures blur, the afternoon sunshine a haze that glints from store windows.
“For a city of nine million people, London often feels like a small town.”
I glance up and study his almost-perfect profile. He’s a little older than I first imagined, and something tells me those lines at the corners of his eyes weren’t made by a life of laughter.
He shifts slightly in his seat, the movement stirring up the subtle scent of a cologne that’s all spice and no sugar. It ignites a highly inappropriate tingle between my legs, which is unfortunate because I know men like him. They’re all three-piece suit and no substance, like a gift basket prettily wrapped to disguise disappointing contents. I bet his name is double barreled, or maybe he’s the fourth in his line to use it. His wealth is probably inherited, which is just another way of saying he’s entitled, and when it comes to giving head, I’ll bet he doesn’t reciprocate.
Yet those aren’t the connections my brain makes as I stare at him. He smells nice, which makes me notice how smooth his cheeks are. It might be wrong to imagine him draped in nothing but a towel, his skin shower slick, but it’s better than replaying my clusterfuck of a day. Which is (thanks, brain) exactly what my mind does as it slides to the image of Mitch standing at the altar. I’d never seen him in a suit. Rugged boots, jeans, and a perma-cocky grin were more his thing. Whatever. He’s still gift-wrapped dog poop.
Do I just have terrible judgment when it comes to men? My gaze flicks over the man next to me, and I stifle a sigh. Can’t fault my taste.
“It’s better that I do know him.”
I startle as I find the man looking down at me. “I’d prefer you didn’t.” Just as I’d prefer to erase the last two-plus years from my brain.
“But then you’d still be standing on the pavement, arguing with him.”
“What? You’re only helping me because you don’t like him?”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend?” The corner of his mouth tips sardonically.
“What happened to good old-fashioned chivalry?”
“Romeo or the villain. Those are my only choices?”
He’s sure as heck not Superman, though he does remind me of Henry Cavill playing the villain in whatever movie that was. “How about plain-old human kindness?”
“Try putting yourself in my position,” he says, adjusting the knife-sharp pleat in his pants. “What would you do if a stranger in a wedding dress hijacked your car?”
“Hardly hijacked—”
“Then praised your eyelashes.”
“That was a genuine compliment!” It might’ve been worse, given I almost landed in his lap. Is that a gun in your pocket or were you just blessed in that department? Not that I should be embarrassed. Or imagining him seminaked. Again. Dear amygdala, have you gone offline today? “So it probably sounded a little random, but trust a man not to understand.”
“I understand well enough why you’d leave Mitchell Atherton at the altar.” As he stares down at me, I realize two things.
One: He hasn’t moved his arm.
Two: I don’t mind one bit.
Who would’ve guessed at the surprises on my wedding bingo card? A cheating groom, a slight mental break, the loss of my gorgeous shoes, and this man, my reluctant hero. Maybe my night of hot revenge sex?
“I appreciate your honesty, if not your reasoning,” I begin. “Obviously, there hasn’t been much of that in my life lately. But I promise, I’m not deranged. Though I’m not sure my guests would agree.” Guests, I think, plucking at a seed pearl in my lap. Faces I barely recognized.