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)
“It’s not like I was out in the street looking for a stand-in groom.”
“Because you’ve been there, done that, and worn the lacy dress. You must’ve looked like a complete bunny boiler.”
“Remind me why we’re friends again?”
“We’re better than friends. We’re mates. We keep it real, but honestly, that whole story is just ridic.”
“That’s me,” I murmur, watching as Yara pats the pockets of her scrubs like she’s looking for something. “Ridiculous. Or at least my life is.”
“So, what’s he called?” she asks, turning to rummage in the bag behind her. “This Romeo rescuer of yours.”
“Romeo.” My shoulders move with a snort.
“No way!” She swings around, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. “You know they wind up dead at the end though, right?”
Hmm. One of us might.
“His name is Oliver.” Saying his name shouldn’t cause me that tiny bubble of pleasure. The man is no Romeo.
“Speak of the devil . . .”
My heart goes ba-dum at the sudden sound of Oliver’s smooth, deep tone. I whip around to find his playful eyes on mine. But there’s an intensity there, too, a facet of him I’m coming to recognize. “What are you doing here? I know I mentioned your name, but I didn’t say it three times.”
“I think that’s Beetlejuice,” Yara offers with a slightly dazzled look.
“He’s got the suit. What shade is this?” I add in a whisper. “Could it be morally gray?” My lady parts are all aflutter as I reach out to rub the lapel of a (charcoal-colored) suit that hugs him in all the right places. It has the finest pinstripes and a matching vest. His shirt is a brilliant white, his tie dark. He even has a pocket square.
Oliver Deubel, you GQ-worthy thirst trap, you.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” he replies, bending to press a kiss to my cheek. Oh, so we’re playing it this way, still.
“What are you doing here?”
“Checking on my bunny boiler, apparently.” He leans around me, offering his hand to Yara. “I’m Oliver. Thankfully, I don’t own any pets.”
“You’re harboring one,” I mutter as Bo suddenly appears, sticking his nose in Oliver’s crotch at the first opportunity available.
“Yes, he does seem to like me,” he says, deftly sliding him away.
“A little too much.” I begin to giggle, but that is not a tale I’m about to tell. “Sorry.” I give myself a little shake. “Oliver, this is Yara, my friend.”
“Hello.” Yara’s voice is suddenly very girly. “It’s nice to meet you, Oliver. Evie was just talking about you.”
“Was she?” He slides me a look that’s hard to decipher.
“She was just telling me how you met.”
“Really?”
“And I was just saying that not many men would’ve seen beyond the wedding dress.”
“And I was just telling her—”
“That I’m not ‘many men’?” He stares lovingly at me, but for the beginnings of a smirk lurking at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re a one-off.” Not a compliment.
“Are you also a vet, Yara?” He turns a pleasantly bland expression her way.
“Yeah,” I answer for her. “She has all the good drugs,” I add, because if he asks me later about this conversation, I’ll blame her illicit drug usage. “Again, what are you doing here?” I slip my hands into the back pockets of my jeans, suddenly not sure what I should do with them. I shouldn’t be touching his suit up, and given what I just told Yara, I probably shouldn’t wrap them around his throat either.
“I was hoping to whisk you away, but you weren’t answering your phone.”
“Oh.” I pivot, then swivel back. “I put it down somewhere. The question is, where?”
“She does this at least five times a day.” Yara directs this Oliver’s way.
“That’s not true.”
“I know,” Oliver replies over the top of my head. “Her glasses, too, I’ve noticed.”
“No, she definitely loses her glasses more.”
“I do not,” I protest. “I’ve been pretty good with them lately. I’ve lost them, like, once?” I look to Oliver for confirmation, catching the end of a satisfied-looking smile. It’s weird that he thinks he can hide it by rubbing a finger across his mouth. “Okay, maybe twice.”
“Something like that.”
“I have them right here,” I retort, reaching into my cardigan pocket.
“Then who do these belong to?” Yara bends to her bag again and pulls out a pair of glasses identical to the ones in my hand. “You left them on the table after we met for coffee last week.”
“Weird.” I reach for them, instantly knowing they’re mine, though I put them on, just in case. The prescription feels the same—the same as the ones I’ve been wearing on and off all day.
“Do you have two pairs the same?” Yara asks, unworried by my confusion.
“No. Yes. Well, I bought two pairs because they had twenty percent off the second pair. It wasn’t much of a bargain when you calculate how I had them only a week.”