Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
I pick up my phone with a murmured apology. Given the social setting, I wouldn’t ordinarily answer, but the diversion seems timely.
Wherever you are, you’d better be having a good fucking time, reads my text from Matteo, which is quickly followed by a second.
Because someone (and my money is on your idiot of a brother) has hired a stripper to wish many happy returns to the birthday boy. Only, guess who isn’t here.
I begin to chuckle, covering it with a cough. While I’m grateful (so fucking grateful) not to be present, I might actually like to be a fly on the wall just to watch how that went down. Like a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest, I shouldn’t wonder.
And not just any old stripper, oh no.
But a scantily-clad octogenarian, comes his next text.
Gyrating. Around the table.
In a Michelin star restaurant, for fuck’s sake!
That is something I don’t need to imagine. Griffin will be so pissed I wasn’t there, but it serves him right. Without answering Matteo’s text, I switch my phone to silent and slide it away.
“I hope that wasn’t your wife, Lyle.” Nikki purrs.“I don’t like competition.”
“Lyle doesn’t have a wife.” Holland stares across at me, her eyes tawny and full of mischief. I give a slow warning shake of my head, which, of course, she ignores. I begin to wonder if trouble might be her middle name. No, because it would have to be proceeded by causer of. “He’s not that way inclined,” she adds happily, ignoring my silent threats of bodily harm.
I think I’m going to put her across my knee at the earliest opportunity.
“You mean he’s . . .?” The woman’s attention bounces between us like a stone skipping across a pond.
“It’s just like Olive to spill all my secrets,” I drawl, agreeing with Holland that it would be convenient for Cousin Lyle to be gay. “I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree.” I pat her hand once again, this time with a look of sympathy. “You lack a couple of the essentials.” I’m not exactly lying. She lacks being Holland, at least.
“Why are all the good one’s gay!” the woman almost wails.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. Is it, Olive?” My reply is heavy with sarcasm. Or my unspoken plans for retribution.
“No, because Lyle hits on straight guys all the time,” Olive, I mean, Holland, offers, unconcerned. “Of course, they’re also usually married.”
That’s not the direction I’d hoped for.
“Who’s married?” Nikki’s companion suddenly arrives back at the table. I can’t recall his name. Just his attitude.
“Lyle is,” Nikki whines. Not that I pay her any attention as Holland’s smile slips, her gaze meeting mine across the table. I shake my head. I’m not married. I was once, but that was a long time ago. I wouldn’t have spent the afternoon with her if I was, and I wouldn’t be planning to spend the rest of the evening between her legs.
“Married to her?”
Our gazes break as Holland’s attention is snagged by his question. A beat later, she’s shaking her head. “No, Lyle isn’t married,” she says with conviction.
“I didn’t mean to say he’s married. I meant to say he’s gay.” Nikki’s shoulders move up then down in a plaintive and unhappy shrug.
“Oh. Really?” He takes his seat next to me. “So all that staring at Olive was . . . what?”
“He’s very protective,” Holland offers.
“Gay.” As the man’s gaze falls over me, a cold realisation sinks in. “I’ll drink to that.” He raises his glass. “Did Nikki mention I’m bi?”
Holland, Holland, Holland, you are absolutely going to pay for this.
5
Holly
Well, shit.
The music fades, then quiets completely as the door to the bathroom closes with an echoing clunk. Honestly, I don’t know how I get myself into these scrapes. How sometimes I just want to see what I can get away with blows up in my face.
“Dammit.” Pulling my purse off my shoulder, I deposit my precious Prada to the vanity with less care than I’d normally show it. “Oh, we’re not dating,” I mutter in a grating falsetto, rummaging through my purse for my lipstick. “We’re family, right, Lyle? Urgh!”
Way to go, Holland. Congrats on trying to screw up a good thing! A sure thing.
I eye myself critically in the mirror. My sister is always saying I’m too clever for my own good, not that I feel particularly intelligent right now. And I know I said I wasn’t going to sleep with him, but that was before. Before he looked at me like something he wanted to devour. Before I changed my mind and decided I’d be breaking my dry spell sometime and that I wanted it to be with him. I can’t remember the last time I met someone, and we just gelled. But that was before the competition turned up wearing a sparkly belt for a skirt! I mean, I look cute, but it’s a look that’s more daytime city girl than a vampy imma-lick-you-from-your-head-to-your-toes kind of look. There might not be anything I can do about my clothes—other than to keep my jacket off because I know the tatas are high and my butt is tight, and I know he’s noticed both of those things—but that didn’t seem enough. So, I made him gay for the second time today.