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)
“Got it. Keep up the pretense in front of your friends.”
“Good.”
“They really aren’t in on this thing with the house?”
“It’s a private matter.”
“What’s it called, anyway?” These types of buildings usually have names. Castle this. Mansion that. Never 123 Easy Street.
“I’ll tell you when you need to know.”
“Whatever.” I feign indifference. I guess I won’t be googling the heck out of that. “When will Nora get her money?”
“When I get my house.”
“What happens if I can’t swing it?”
“Then the deal is off.”
“But that’s not fair—I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to carry this off.”
“Then you’d better try very hard.”
Asshole.
“After a period of being seen together,” he begins.
“Define together,” I demand, interrupting him.
“Dinners, outings, that kind of thing. Once I’m satisfied you’re up to the task, I’ll introduce you to the owner.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter flatly. “And then what? You want me to dazzle him so he doesn’t notice what you’re up to?”
His smile seems reluctant. “That would be something to see.”
“Seriously, Oliver, just tell me exactly what you expect me to do.”
“Adore me.”
I roll my eyes so hard, I’m sure I see the inside of my skull.
“It won’t be a problem for you,” he says smoothly. “You’ve convinced me before. Against my better judgment.”
“Sex is not adoration.”
“Then just look at me like you want to fuck me.” Reaching out, he tips my chin, those mesmerizing eyes boring into me, corkscrew sharp. “No, darling,” he murmurs. “Not fuck me up.”
“What else?” I overstress.
“Just be yourself. I think you’ll get along with the owner. You likely have lots in common.”
“Was he recently cheated on? Blackmailed? Forced to pretend he’s into someone too?”
“From the woman who manipulated me into bed.” He smiles. “Try not to forget I’m not the only one getting something out of this.”
“My visa,” I mutter.
“And help for Nora. Managing the narrative of your split. Protection from anything Atherton might throw your way.” He presses his elbow to the leather armrest between us, leaning in. “Believe me, Eve. There are many benefits available to you.”
“And believe me, Oliver. I’m not having sex with you.”
Chapter 17
A Little Bird Told Us . . .
Mitch Atherton, former reality TV star turned property developer and—who could forget—the Pulse Tok groom London loves to hate, was spotted out on the town with a familiar face last night.
“Is she a model?” a Little Bird hears you ask. “A starlet? A minor member of European royalty?”
A Little Bird wishes she could say yes, because the truth is much more salacious. She’s familiar because she also starred in the Pulse Tok as the bride’s maid of honor.
Can there ever be smoke without fire, my flock?
Let us know what you think.
587 comments
IloveLads: Agreed. No smoke without fire and that twatwaffle deserves to fry.
MissPickle: I hope they both get herpes.
Zara_A: Smoke? I’d f-ing burn him!
GreenOreo: Sir, you are a scumbag. Therefore, eat shit and die.
HideYoKids: Him? What about her? WHAT A TROLLOP!
MicroP33n: Takes tow to tango.
HoppyGoLucky: And half a brain to spell
DanteClaus: Name checks out. Tiny mind. Tiny todger.
Rope-a-dope: Marcus, is that you?
TheHallouminati: I saw him getting blasted by the brunching brigade at Brick Lane market. It was well sick!
McLuffin: I would’ve paid to see that.
JimBeamMeUp: That poor woman. Hasn’t she been through enough?
LOAD MORE COMMENTS . . .
Chapter 18
EVIE
“Eve, I’m downstairs.” Oliver’s clipped words ring through the handset of my new phone. It has my old number—Mitchell’s number is blocked, obviously—and I have my new bank cards, and passport, thanks to reporting it lost, which isn’t really a lie. But just as importantly, I have this:
“Good for you!” I say into the phone, as though speaking to a toddler.
“I am downstairs. You are not.”
“No flies on you, Olly. That must be why you earn the big bucks.”
“The plan was for you to be down here by the time I returned,” he replies, audibly tamping down his frustration and ignoring his hated nickname.
Was that the sound of a molar chipping?
“I don’t know what to tell you. Plans change. Fashions change. Weather and hairstyles too. Nothing in this life is static.” Which is total bull, because I hit pause on my life the day I moved into this suite. The day I turned up at his door and asked, “Is this hell? Wow, I love what you’ve done with the place.”
It’s been two weeks of chauffeur-driven rides to Nora’s. Two weeks of yummy room service lunches, fancy spa visits, and late-afternoon siestas. Two weeks of champagne cocktails and fancy dinners out, all in Oliver’s quest to build our backstory.
“Thank you for sharing your philosophy. However, we agreed you’d meet me downstairs for dinner.”
“Did we agree?” I press my index finger into my cheek as though he can see me. “Wait. Was that before or after I said you’d regret blackmailing me into living with you?” My footsteps are barely audible as I cross the room to the French doors, pushing back the stylish window dressings. I step out onto the small Juliet balcony and look over the wrought iron railings down into the street. A sleek town car pulls up at the hotel entrance, the liveried doorman sedate in his progression to the passenger door. To the left of me somewhere is Buckingham Palace, to my right a hundred ritzy stores. Across the street, a man double-parks his bright-red midlife crisis Lamborghini as a woman in head-to-toe Gucci passes, using her $30,000 Birkin as her fluffy Pomeranian’s pet carrier. I love London, but this spot right here is a crazy-pants level of wealthy.