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)
“Are those extensions?” I tighten my grip on what I realize are his lapels.
He looks like the kind of man who takes care of himself. Feels like it, too, thanks to the broad chest I’m currently pressed against. But I’m going to take that wintry, unimpressed twist of his lips as no.
“Wow, real? Mother Nature sure is a joker.” Taking a deep breath, I refocus. “I’m sorry for bursting in on you like this—”
“Quite literally.”
“—but this is an emergency.”
“And this isn’t an ambulance.” His voice is deep and refined and feels like the brush of velvet along my spine. “It also isn’t a wedding car.”
“I’m not going to a wedding,” I snap, my damsel-in-distress act slipping. I glance out of the rear window and spot Mitchell on the sidewalk, scanning the spaces between the idling cars. My gaze narrows. He should be on his knees thanking God for tinted windows because I won’t be forced to strangle him with my veil.
“Contrary to appearances, you mean?”
“What?” I swipe the gauzy lace out of my face, and when I turn back, I find we’re almost nose to nose.
“Did you run off with the contents of the collection plate?” His brow spikes like an elegant question mark.
“There isn’t a collection at a wedding.” I frown, pulling back and pressing up onto one palm to put a little distance between us. I shouldn’t notice the fine fabric of his pants or the thick muscle of his thigh flexing under them.
Get it together, Evie. The man is wearing a three-piece suit, for gosh sake.
“There is usually a bride.”
As the pretty man’s gaze flicks over me, I decide pretty is doing him a disservice. His face must be a photographer’s delight, all broad strokes and sharp angles, square jawed and with those supermodel cheekbones. His dark hair is glossy and thick, and his eyes are the most unlikely shade of . . . whatever that is.
“I might be going to a party,” I object. “A princess party.”
“Except you’re wearing a veil, not a crown, and you’re clearly not six years old. You’re either running to or from a wedding.” His eyes skate over me. “Or running from someone at a wedding.”
Would it be too much to hope that he might be rich and sympathetic? Not traits that often go together, but what choice do I have?
“Yes, okay. I’m running away from a hall of guests and a cheating groom.” I slide my fingers across his chest to straighten his abused lapel, not ready to see pity in his expression. Gosh, his torso seems almost geometric. I wonder if there’s a red S under here, except that whole eyebrow thing he does makes him look more like a villain. “Please, I just need a ride. Anywhere.” My fingers halt as I come back to myself, realizing it might seem like I’m feeling him up.
A car nearby sounds its horn, and the traffic begins to creep forward, thank God. The knot in my stomach begins to loosen, until his arm moves behind me. The buttery leather seats barely murmur as he settles me against his side, his fingers folding around my shoulder to hold me close. My heart creeps up my throat as he reaches for the door, and the locks click as they engage.
This could be why children are warned not to get into strangers’ cars.
“Ted, we must get the locks examined.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver replies.
“Meanwhile, something tells me that would be your groom.”
“What?”
“Evie!”
My body jolts, my unease spiking at Mitchell’s voice. The stranger’s fingers tighten as I turn, finding the window open and that shithead staring at me from a gap in the traffic.
“Evie, please!” His eyes flick to the man beside me, and his expression turns sour. “What the fuck is he doing here?”
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter at the accusation in his tone. He’s got some nerve after what he’s put me through today.
My companion’s arm tightens, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Pure chance, Atherton. A pleasant quirk of fate. But I see you’re still undertaking your life’s work to screw over everyone around you.”
“You two know each other?” My head whips around as the car begins to move again. Tires squeal, and my heart shoots into my throat. I glance back just in time to see Mitch slam his palms onto the hood of a black cab.
“Pity.” The stranger slants me a look. “Don’t you think?”
“That he wasn’t hit?”
“You’d rather run him over yourself?” When I bite my tongue from answering yes, he gives a graceful shrug. “Violence. It might not be the answer, yet it doesn’t stop certain individuals from begging the question.”
“Believe me, I know.”
“Babe, I’m sorry.” Mitch appears at the window, his fingers curled around the glass.
“Sorry you got caught, more like.”
“Please don’t do this.” His throat bobs with emotion.