Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
The very idea of driving him anywhere was audacious. Especially as he’d used our time together at the Renaissance fair last night complaining about his mum wanting to sell his Range Rover while he was abroad. She’d promised to buy him a newer model once he was back, but BJ argued there was a backlog due to supply issues, and that public transportation gave him a rash.
Yes, I knew he was a rich prat. Frankly, that was his entire appeal. His ability to promise me a life full of security, lavish vacations, and beautiful houses.
Though stabbing him in the eye with my plastic sword had been my preferred response to his whinging, I’d chosen to remind myself that Kate and Wills had also split before the prince realized she was his one true love. Was Kate bitter about it? No. Did she throw a fit? Also no. That’s right. She kept it classy. And look at her now. A princess.
Which was how I found myself reassuring him that giving him a ride was no problem at all.
“When shall I pick you up?” I asked as I maneuvered my way among sweaty tourists and Instagram influencers who thought it was appropriate to walk the street in a bikini.
“Seven’s fine. I’m going for drinks with Dan beforehand,” I heard BJ say on the other side of the line.
I took a tiny bit of pleasure in how Riggs had referred to him as an indulgent Western idiot yesterday. My future husband seemed well traveled enough to recognize an eejit when he saw one.
“Give Dan my regards,” I said airily, wondering at what point, exactly, it was appropriate to tell your runaway boyfriend you were betrothed to another.
“Thanks, babe.”
“Oh, and BJ . . .” I stopped at a red pedestrian light. “There’s something we should talk about before—”
“Fuuuuuck!” he screamed, cutting into my words. “I just remembered! That asshole Quinton still has my good luggage. The Prada Mom gave me last Christmas? I gotta call him.”
Deep breaths. Kate and Wills. All the roads to happiness are bumpy.
“Right. Yes. The Prada luggage. Of course.”
“Gotta go, babe. I’ll see you at seven. Bye.”
The light turned green. I charged ahead, ready to rugby-tackle anyone in my way. My mobile rang again. Probably BJ wanting to know if I could pick up his dry cleaning on my way to him. Thankfully, it was Kieran.
I slid my AirPods into my ears, then swiped the screen and took the video call.
Kieran was leaning against the white-and-blue Formica of his fish-and-chips stand, a fag tucked behind his ear. He looked like an untended-to male version of me. With floppy overgrown hair and droopy violet eyes and a Joy Division tee that had seen better days. In the eighties.
“Lil sis!” he cooed.
“Stop calling me that, I’m literally five minutes younger than you.” I continued my march toward my flat, cutting through the stream of human bodies.
“You could’ve been two minutes younger than me, but no, you had to be breech. Always so special, Duffy.” He grinned at me. I smiled back. Mum still held a grudge against me for sending her for an emergency C-section after she’d had Kieran the way God intended. Apparently, I’d refused to cooperate with her doctor and flip to a head-down position, which earned me the nickname “Arsehole” in the family. Since I was butt down when the doctor cut Mum’s belly open and fished me out. What could I say? I’d been strong willed since day one.
“I have something to tell you.” I stopped in front of my building’s front door. Riggs was probably inside, and I didn’t want to have this conversation with him around. Unfortunately, every minute I was outside was a minute I spent sodden with sweat. Today really was unbearably hot.
Kieran pushed off the wall, greeted a client, and served them fish-and-chips while sighing, “BJ finally popped the question, huh? Took him long enough. Mum was getting worried he wasn’t serious about you.”
Kieran wasn’t insensitive per se. He was just . . . Kieran. Chronologically twenty-six, but mentally a decade younger. Other than co-owning the chippy with Mum’s husband, he didn’t have one responsible bone in his body. Still, his words hurt.
“BJ didn’t propose to me.” I cleared my throat. “But I am getting married.”
“Bit confused here. You may want to elaborate.” He popped open a bottle of Irn-Bru.
“I’m marrying someone else.” I licked my lips, averting my gaze to the redbrick building in front of me. “To stay in the States.”
“Christ, Duffy.” Kieran coughed out his drink. “To who?”
“A man.”
“Well, that narrows it down!” he thundered. “Who? When? How? Do we know him? Is he a friend of BJ’s?”
“What does it matter? It’s not real, is it?” I tried to sound pragmatic. “He seems like a reliable chap. Very . . .” Old. Chaotic. “Mature. Adventurous. And honestly, I don’t think he’s going to be around very much. He’s a photographer for a nature magazine.”