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)
“In your suite?”
“That’s none of your business,” I say, straightening my cuffs.
“You’re not serious.” Matt’s mouth is an unimpressed flat line.
I flick my shoulder in answer.
“Does she know that?” This from Fin.
“I am not the devil you’d make me,” I begin, the words firing from my mouth like bullets.
“Oliver,” he says sadly, “I don’t make you anything. We all know there’s very little in the world you wouldn’t do for revenge.”
Chapter 21
EVIE
“I need help,” I whisper as my arms bounce against the mattress, mortification filling me with restless energy. “Psychiatric help. Who talks to themself in a busy restaurant?”
I relaxed a little too much—I wasn’t prepared to enjoy myself! And Oliver’s friends were so cool. Total charmers, and I enjoyed watching him play the straight man of their comedy trio. Maybe it’s because they were so nice that I let my guard down.
The wine didn’t help. Or the drool-worthy dessert menu. Man, I wish I ordered that heavenly slice of gâteau. Layers of almond sponge soaked in Amaretto liqueur, layered with featherlight Belgian chocolate mousse and topped with a mocha ganache. My mouth watered just reading the description, and I hummed in anticipation of sliding all that deliciousness into my mouth.
Come to mama!
But when I glanced up, three pairs of eyes were staring at me like I’d just sprouted another head. I felt like such an idiot, so I left. In haste. And now I’m repenting (and cringing) at leisure because all I can think of is how crazy I must’ve looked. Maybe food obsessed? Which is better than a country club clone, I guess. The girlfriend of a rich dude who doesn’t eat real food.
I shiver, the ghost of my not-yet-dead mother shimmying over my not-yet-dug grave. A minute on the lips, an inch on the hips, Evelyn. That’s not how you get a husband!
“Yeah, well, brownies not frownies, my skinny sisters,” I mutter as I reach for the box of Maltesers stashed in my nightstand. Maltesers are like if a Whopper and a square of Lindt milk chocolate had a love child with a British accent. The only negative thing I have to say about them is their sharing boxes aren’t fit for purpose. Who shares candy?
I give the box a shake—sad face. There’s no telltale rattle. I must’ve finished them off already.
“Ah!” I have another idea as I jump up from my bed, ignoring Bo’s unhappy glare. Bitch, who disturbs my slumber?
Pulling on my door handle, I peek into the living area. But then I remember Oliver went out. He had come back to the suite not long after me, tense jawed and not in the mood for conversation. Jerk face. At least he’d thanked me for coming to dinner, though he stopped short of saying the meal was a success. Next thing, I heard the door to the suite close as he left.
My mind slides to the notification I received about my visa. I can’t contemplate what it might mean if I haven’t convinced his friends. I need sugar, stat. Sugar is my stress companion of choice.
Maybe that’s why I was ready to lick the dessert menu clean.
I make my way into the tiny, immaculate, and largely unused kitchen, not bothering with the light as I pull a bag of giant-size marshmallows out from a cabinet.
So I might have sugar stashes all over the place.
As I rip the bag open, I look up at the tippy-tap of claws.
“Nothing wrong with your hearing,” I say to Bo as he appears in the open doorway. Whoever said dogs don’t smile has never seen one near a rustling bag. “You got the munchies too?” He does an expectant little dance. “You know your cute face alone does not earn you treats.”
As though understanding, he trots into the room and, like a busking magician, unpacks his bag of party tricks. He sits, offers me his paw to shake, then balances himself on his hind legs to beg.
“Impressive. Can you teach Oliver to do that?” The dog cants his teddy bear head. “I’d give you all the treats if you teach him to beg at my feet. Add in a little tongue and . . .” Well, I’d be done for. What that man and his tongue can’t do is something I shouldn’t be dwelling on.
Oliver Deubel = no Romeo.
Meanwhile Bo, impatient for his treat, spins twice in a circle before plonking himself onto his fluffy butt.
“You went for the whole shebang, huh?” Well, nearly. I make a gun with my fingers. “Bang!” Bo throws himself theatrically to the floor—dead dog. “Fine, you earned it.”
Reaching into the overhead cabinet, I pull out a bag of doggy treats and pay up. Bo trots happily away with his chew, leaving me with the bag of marshmallows.
I’ve just shoved a whole bunch of pink and white into my mouth when the entrance door beeps. My heart trips over itself as I hear it swing open.