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)
“There’s also ‘Bridezilla’s Revenge.’”
My feet shuffle against the wet ground. I’m unsure if I want to know what she’s talking about or if I want to run away.
“Those are only two of the headlines I’ve seen. We at the City Chronicle would like to give you the option to tell your side of the story in our London society column, A Little Bird Told Us.”
“There is no story.” I turn away quickly. I’m not the only bride to have changed her mind, to have stood up for herself.
“It wasn’t that you changed your mind, but the manner of your retaliation.”
Shit. I said that? I only thought . . . “I have nothing else to say.”
“Evelyn,” she calls after me. “Women everywhere are cheering for you. I won’t be the only journalist interested, but I’ll be the best to tell your story!”
“Hello, Eve.” Another voice, one that shouldn’t feel like a swallow of whisky in a cold, empty stomach. Warm. Intoxicating. Welcome.
The pull of him is inevitable as I turn to the rear window of the Bentley, Oliver’s fire-bright gaze fixed on me.
“Go away,” I mutter, forcing myself into an undignified wet-foot limp past him. Tires hiss against the wet asphalt, but I don’t stop. I’m pretty sure he’s not about to mow me down. I haven’t annoyed him that much. Yet.
As the Bentley pulls alongside me, I keep my attention ahead.
“Get in the car.”
My, what a drawling command. Maybe I should try that tone for myself. “Oliver? Go suck my lady dick.”
“I did. We both liked it.”
“Are you serious right now?” I think my jaw just unhinged as my feet come to a stop and I glare at him. Mostly to cover how my body doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo that we don’t like him.
“I never joke about sex. Get in the car. Please,” he adds as an obvious afterthought. Damn his perfect jawline; the universe is unjust, because if Oliver’s looks matched his personality, he’d have a face like a troll. Or maybe the devil, because wasn’t the devil an angel once?
“Can’t. I have an appointment, and I’m late.” I swing around and begin to walk again.
“All the more reason to accept a ride. Or should I go back and have a word with your friend? Was she a journalist?”
My sneakers squeak as I halt. Again. The Bentley’s tires do not do the same. “You would not,” I utter icily, my head turning like the turret on a tank. From what I’m coming to understand, he probably would, but . . . Think, Evie. What benefit would it be to him? Just another manipulation. Whether he will or won’t carry through isn’t the point.
“Probably not,” Oliver concedes with a little lift of one shoulder. “But it got you to stop.”
“And now I’m starting again.” With a mean, closed-lipped smile, I pivot away. “Goodbye, Oliver. Let’s not meet again.”
I take a left out of the car park, and the Bentley follows, its pace matching mine. I hate the tiny spark of excitement inside me, and how it feeds the needy part of my soul.
“We can carry on our conversation like this, but only one of us is getting wet,” Oliver says from the window. “And not in the fun way.”
“You make me wish I had my headphones.” I could get Ted, his poor driver, to wear them.
“Hop in, and we’ll go and get them. Your phone, your belongings—everything.”
“Oh, you’d just love that.” I throw the words over my shoulder.
“Yes, you’re right. I’d love to help you.”
I hate that I glance his way again, but not as much as I hate the expression he’s wearing. It’s an incitement to violence.
Yes, Officer, that is my knife sticking out of his chest.
Yes, sir, I did say he had it coming to him.
“While we’re at his apartment, I should get you a wooden spoon from the kitchen to help you with your stirring.”
“Or I could spank you with it for being so obstinate.”
“In your dreams.”
His laugh is dirtier than the break room’s microwave. “Eve, I would love the opportunity to describe my dreams to you.”
That tempting little flutter starts up between my legs. It’s not right or appropriate, as far as responses go, but I can’t help how my body reacts to him. It makes no sense. He threatens me, trails me in his car, and I go all gooey? It’s so wrong that my body is all Oliver, just go full dark-book boyfriend, and throw me in the car!
“For someone so spirited on Saturday, you seem very fretful about facing your ex.”
“No one looks forward to seeing their ex. Unless that ex happens to be in a coffin.”
“I did suggest death by cab. Let’s make him green with jealousy instead.”
I grit my teeth and brush my rain-wet hair from my face. I take it all back. Book boyfriends aren’t supposed to annoy the heroine into exploding. “Not gonna happen.”