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)
“The bride came to her senses.”
About a week too late, if I remember.
“Caught him with his pants down. But that’s not even the fun part.”
“Because finding out your fiancé is cheating is always fun.”
“Pah! Like you’ve ever dated anyone for longer than a week.”
“Not true. Also, kettle”—I tap my chest, then point my finger at him—“meet pot.”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
Altering my path, I take a seat opposite him. “I’m all ears.”
“Make it eyes too,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Because it went viral.”
“What did?” I sit straight. I would’ve known if we’d been recorded. I took her to my club, for God’s sake—that place is like a vault. A fucking crypt! Then I booked her into her own room at the hotel. I just hadn’t meant to stay there with her.
“Just a clip of the ceremony.” He stares down at the screen of his phone. “Dude was definitely punching.”
“Yes, wasn’t he?” Mitchell Atherton is a posh boy with an empty head who once got lucky at my expense. He’s greedy and rash, and I’ve no doubt in my belief he’d be idiot enough to screw up his life over a quick fuck. And Eve? Well, Eve is just . . . I find myself trailing my forefinger across my bottom lip as though I could still taste the depth and complexity of her. That balance of her sweet and bitter notes.
“She’s hot.”
“Mm.” Like a flame dancing in my hands. And just as dangerous. She’d intrigued me, but I hadn’t intended to act on it, no matter how her eyes darkened or her breath hitched at my whispered commands. It was the best night of my life, yet it’s left me with the worst feeling.
Because I woke alone?
“Wait, do you know her?”
“An educated guess,” I add, my tone clipped. “It’s all such a cliché.”
“And she looks the type.”
My attention slices up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Gorgeous. A killer rack.” He gives a meaningless shrug. “A bod made for wet dreams.” With that, he pitches his phone into my hands, which saves me from wrapping them around his throat. “Play it,” he demands. “Then take me to breakfast for making your day.”
“For the love of everything that’s holy,” I mutter, throwing down my napkin. I hook my elbow over the back of my chair and turn to the table of women seated behind. “Do you mind?” I glance pointedly down at the phone the blonde is holding in one hand. In the other is a half-drunk mimosa. She has the good grace to blush as she flicks from the social media app blaring out yesterday’s travesty at Shoreditch Town Hall.
When I told Eve I’d pay to see her throw rocks at her ex, I didn’t for one minute think I’d get the chance. But then Fin had thrown me his phone and I’d watched the minute-long recording of the moment she rejected him so spectacularly.
It was good, for at least the first dozen times. She’d blazed incandescent, and it made me want her all over again. But I’m not the only voyeur, the likes, saves, and shares of the video increasing by the hundreds every few seconds. It seems like the whole of the UK has watched it, including the group of women in the same restaurant, playing it on repeat.
“What’s your problem?” demands a brunette from the far side of the table, her words slightly slurred. “Is the dick groom a friend of yours?”
It used to be that London’s streets were full of drunken football hooligans on Sundays. Now it’s women, teetering on their heels after bottomless brunches.
“I just find it hard to stomach how society revels in the suffering of others.”
“He deserves to suffer,” she says, her eyes daring me to contradict her.
Fin smothers a chuckle, knowing how I feel about Atherton. While I might’ve suggested death by cabbie yesterday, I’m not about to discuss that with a group of half-drunken strangers.
“I was talking about the bride.” The very lovely bride who snuck out of my hotel this morning, leaving me with nothing but sore abdominals and the flavor of her pleasure on my tongue.
Smarting? Me? Definitely.
“You should stop talking,” Fin mutters in a tone meant only for my ears.
“Bad enough to discover her fiancé’s infidelity,” I say, ignoring him, “but then to find herself the viewing pleasure of half of London seems cruel, don’t you think?”
“We’re applauding her,” the brunette announces, raising her glass. “Read the comments.” She thrusts her phone in my direction.
“She’s a boss-ass bitch!” interjects her friend.
At a strangled noise, I glance behind me to find Fin slunk low in his seat, his hand covering his eyes.
“You’re on your own,” he mutters.
“She’s a motha-fuckin’ queen!” yells the redhead, turning suddenly street. And American. “If she was here, I’d buy her a drink. Hell, we all would.”