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)
Tod obviously doesn’t love me, or I wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Then again, it’s not like I married Raif to protect Tod. Not exactly like that, anyway.
My gaze slides unbidden once more to my partner in matrimony and mendacities for the next twelve months. How I feel about Raif is not so easy to work out, especially when his cologne is so pervasive, filling every inch of space between us. His fingers work the steering wheel so deftly, his thigh continually tautening and relaxing just a few inches from mine as he drives.
How I feel about him—how I feel about him is maddening.
When I think about being in bed with him, I come over all hot and prickly with a sickening kind of elation. It’s like… when I was a little girl, I used to look forward to my birthdays with such anticipation. Like most little girls, I imagine. I’d work myself into a tizzy, thinking about my birthday party and the games we’d play, my cake, and the pile of gifts I’d be allowed to open when everyone went home.
But the reality of the day was somehow very different. I’d be standing at the front door, dressed in my party outfit, watching my classmates skip along the garden path. My stomach would get queasy, and I’d get this desperate urge to pull my hand from Dad’s, to run away and hide. Or maybe fling the front door shut in their faces.
It always seemed as though Dad understood. He’d tighten his hand on mine and remind me these were my friends—that they were here to see me.
Maybe that was part of the problem.
It’s weird, but just thinking about those experiences still makes me feel so intensely uncomfortable. I wanted a birthday party—I wanted it so badly. But on the day, I just couldn’t handle it.
I’m told I’d cry instead of blowing out my candles yet lose my ever-loving shit if anyone’s breath came near it. I’d put my hands over my ears when “Happy Birthday” was sung. Sometimes, I even yelled for them to all shut up.
Birthdays are supposed to be fun—at least they are until you become aware of the passing years, your lack of achievements, and your own marching mortality—yet I found them an ordeal.
At best, a disappointment. At worst, a traumatic tear fest.
But I wanted to enjoy them so badly, and the anticipation would make me feel so giddy. And that, I suppose, is how I feel about sleeping with Raif.
And by sleeping, I mean having sex with him.
Maybe I’m worried the reality won’t match my expectations.
I glance down at my lap, my ring glistening in the late afternoon sun.
Or maybe I’m worried it will.
I’m in such deep shit—oh! What if, like my childhood birthdays, I cry in the middle of the act? It wouldn’t be the first time that has happened.
“Lavender?”
I realize I’d made a noise—a tiny, dry sob.
“I’m fine. I mean, yes?” I thrust my hands under my thighs. I won’t bite my thumbnails.
“We’re just coming up to the house.”
“But this isn’t Chelsea.” Just call me Captain Obvious as I glance out the window.
“I don’t live in Chelsea.”
“Right.” I nod. “Got it. That’s just where your illicit party house is. I suppose if Daisy had been in the house, you wouldn’t have…” I turn to him, my cheeks suddenly burning hotter than a thousand suns.
“I wouldn’t have what?” he asks, all taunt and smirk.
“Hosted an illegal gambling den?”
“Right. That’s exactly what I thought you were about to say.”
“Good.” Damn his sharp gaze. Why is it he always seems to see and know far too much?
Maybe I should just get this wedding night over before I end up with negative brain cells.
As the electric gate opens slowly, I steel myself for what’s to come. I’m nervous. More nervous than I was saying I do—more nervous even than telling Polly I’d robbed her of a fancy wedding do. A party and stuff.
I’m sure she’ll look forward to Primrose finding love. Provided my sister can find someone stupid enough.
The thing is, you can’t fool kids. You can try, and you can tell yourself their brains aren’t big enough to decode what’s true and what’s not. But I think it’s exactly because their brains are working on limited software that their intuition is somehow elevated. Children are perceptive. They can work out if you’re telling porkies and are absolutely aware whether you like them, no matter how many smiles you dish out or lollies you magic out of your pocket. So yeah, you might say I’m worried as Raif pulls the car into the turning circle.
A house with a turning circle. In central London. This guy must have more money than sense. But then, he offered me millions to marry him, so I guess that story checks out.
Me. Why me? I usually frighten men off. I can’t even get Tod to notice me, and he’ll bang anything with a pulse!