Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“I think we’ll break out the champagne,” Polly murmurs, running her fingers under her eyes.
Champagne is produced, and Polly asks me to do the honors. She’s busy lifting glasses from the cabinet when the girl from the hallway—Primrose—saunters into the kitchen.
“Why are we drinking champagne?” Plucking an orange from the fruit bowl, she brings it to her nose.
“Your sister got married yesterday.” Polly holds a glass flute, examining it. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
Primrose’s gaze dips to Lavender’s midriff.
“Pfft, as if!” Lavender scoffs.
“Is this some kind of joke?” The orange makes a dull thud as Primrose drops it to the countertop.
“Why would I joke about something like that?” Lavender demands belligerently.
“You’ve told worse jokes. Remember the one about your ex and the broken window? Oh wait, that wasn’t a joke. It was true.”
Lavender turns instantly pale, her expression hardening as she flips her sister the bird.
“How could you have gotten married? You were at work yesterday.” Her eyes flick my way. “I’ve never even seen him before.”
“I don’t tell you everything.”
“When did you propose?” her sister asks, turning my way.
“Friday night.”
She snorts and glances her mother’s way. “That explains it. She was at a house party. I bet she was on a bender.”
“Who was on a bender?”
All eyes move to Brin Whittington as he comes to a stop just inside the doorway.
“I’ve put new cartridges in,” he says, wiping ink from his fingertips. “I don’t know what you do with the bloody thing.” Brin’s gaze lifts, his expression flickering as though he doesn’t quite trust what he’s seeing.
“Brin. What a pleasant surprise.” I hold out my unused glass. “You’re just in time.”
“What’s he doing here?” he asks no one in particular as he crosses the kitchen. “In time for what?”
It’s possible he only takes the glass because no one has answered him.
I pour a little champagne into the remaining flute. “To congratulate us.”
“Aren’t you engaged to…” His words trail away as I slide my arm around Lavender’s waist. Her stiff posture slackens as I give it a slight squeeze, and she offers her left hand for examination.
Brin’s eyes fly wide, darting from his sister’s hand to his mother’s face. Polly musters a wan smile, and his attention darts back to me.
Ah, the sweet fucking justice of it all. How brilliant my smile must beam as Brin splutters, “No fucking way.”
15
LAVENDER
My plans for the regular weekend include Saturday in the gallery, then maybe drinks after work. Sunday morning I often spend in bed, wrapped in my duvet and catching up on Fifty Day Fiancé and MAFS. Primrose likes to thumb her nose at my shows. She calls it car-crash TV. And I suppose she’s right because it’s near impossible to tear my attention away until they’re finished.
Sunday afternoon might be lunch at Polly’s or maybe a stroll to the local pub with Tod for a little hair of the dog. Not that I drink to excess these days, but if you can’t demand “prosecco me” on Sunday, then what the heck is the weekend for?
Those were the plans I’d been looking forward to. Instead, I get to spend my Sunday lying to my family for reasons I’ve yet to fully fathom. It’s surely not all about the monetary gain from my prenup promise of persuasion. Which leaves, what?
Sexual voodoo?
One thing is for sure, Raif Deveraux has a literal fuck-ton of that stuff.
I can’t believe I almost used his hot body to get myself off last night. At least until—
My stomach cramps as I cut off that thought.
I’ve had more pleasant Sundays than this, and I include the one I spent sleeping off a potential drunk-and-disorderly charge in a cell at the Chelsea Police Station. Which is another thought that doesn’t warrant examination.
It’s not like the two aren’t linked.
Argh! Brain, get with the program.
“And this is the good parlor,” I mutter, pushing the door open. I gesture Raif ahead.
Kill me now. He’s getting the grand tour of my childhood home, whether he wants it or not.
“Just the downstairs,” Polly had whispered, pushing me out of the kitchen. She obviously didn’t want to put us both in proximity to a bed. Heavens, the temptation!
But I’m sure Mum only insisted on me showing him around to give her a few moments to calm Brin down. He did not look happy. He was looking at me as though my name were Lydia and his was Lizzie. I don’t think he’s upset that I beat him to the matrimonial finish line and more something about who I’ve married.
Maybe Raif is some Wickham-esque fuckboi.
But these are more thoughts I slot away. I’ll interrogate my brother later.
“Very pretty,” Raif says, sauntering into the room.
I pull a face, not that he can see as he walks to the end where French doors lead out into the sun-drenched garden.
“Is that a tree house?” He glances over his shoulder.