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)
So why am I squinting through the rain while fluffing my ponytail? Because you don’t want to look like shit when you see him again should not be the answer, but it’s the one my brain offers.
Oliver Deubel makes me feel . . . hot and bothered. Antsy and annoyed. I’d say he’s the human equivalent of stinging nettles but for the flicker of yes, please! that starts up whenever I think of him. Even after his threats. Well, I’m not going to let him cause problems for me. My visa can’t be that hard to fix. My stomach roils as I mentally push away the results of my earlier Google fest. It’s just a temporary problem. It has to be. Same goes for my fascination with him.
Meanwhile, it looks like this rain is here to stay. I sigh, wondering if I should leave Nora’s for another day. It’s not like she’s expecting me. I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon.
Nora is kicking eighty, and her cell phone is a brick. I doubt it has that ancient snake game, never mind access to the web. Even if she had the internet at her little animal sanctuary, she wouldn’t ask questions. She has zero interest in any creature that wasn’t born to walk on four legs.
“It’s bloody chucking it down!”
I turn to the sound of the door opening behind me and of Ida, the practice manager’s voice.
“Yep, good old British summertime.”
Top tip: when seeking safe conversation in London, always opt for the weather.
“Better the rain than honeymooning with that waste of space.”
So much for safe.
“I hope he gets crotch rot and his todger falls off.” Ida gives a decisive nod, and I find myself laughing unexpectedly. And tearing up, unfortunately. “Anyway, I meant to give you these,” she says, passing a bunch of colorful sticky notes into my hand. “Messages that came in for you today.” She presses one age-weathered finger to the bridge of her glasses, prodding them higher on her nose. “Said they were journalists, all but one of them.” She adds a distaining sniff. “That call was from someone called Lori complaining about a bad smell hanging around the front of the house.”
“What?” Why would she . . .
“It was the waste-of-space shit bag,” Ida adds.
A heavy brick sinks to the pit of my stomach. Where did Mitch get Riley’s address?
“It’s only a question of time before he turns up here. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” I thought, well, I thought he might not bother, given I’m supposed to be on vacation. With him.
“If you want to keep management off your back, I say you take your holidays.”
I guess that’s Ida speak for “they wouldn’t appreciate a scene.”
“Anyway, I neither confirmed nor denied you worked here,” she summarizes, pulling the sides of her chunky cardigan tighter across her small frame. “Data protection, so I said. Then I told them to push off and get a proper job.”
I shove the sticky notes into the pocket of Riley’s hoodie. “Thanks, Ida.”
“You’re welcome, love. You okay?”
“Mostly.” The word hits the air as wobbly as my smile.
“Poor lamb.” She makes a sympathetic click of teeth and tongue. “Let me pass on something my dad told me a long time ago, God rest his soul. He said that if a man shits himself in public, it’s usually because he has a bigger stink to hide.”
I resist the urge to wrinkle my nose. Ida’s dad was no poet, but I guess he wasn’t wrong. Marrying me to get his hands on a property. Screwing Oliver’s assistant. It could be the tip of the iceberg.
“Your dad sounds like a smart man.”
“Not really. He fell down a manhole, drunk. Broke his neck. Anyway, you take care,” she adds brightly as she disappears behind the closing door.
Well, okay. Head down against the deluge, I step out into the rain . . . and straight into a puddle. “What in the name of—”
A car door slams in the distance, but I’m too busy to pay attention as I try to determine if that’s mud stuck to the sole of my wet sneaker (or something worse) as I curse the stars, the universe, and humanity in general. I’ve even forgotten the parked Bentley as someone calls out my name.
“Evelyn Fairfax?”
I lift my head and narrow my eyes at the woman with a polka-dot umbrella walking toward me. She holds out her free hand, but not in greeting, as she flashes me some kind of ID.
“My name is Una Smith. I’m with the City Chronicle. I wondered if you have a few minutes to chat.”
“No.” And hell no. “I’m in kind of a hurry.” Gaze averted, I move past her, wet sneaker and all.
“‘Savage Bride Reads Out Cheater’s Text Messages Instead of Vows.’”
I pivot with an incredulous “What did you just say?”