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)
I met Mitch on vacation two years ago. Though, more accurately, I was working and traveling. I’d been living that way almost since graduating from college. We’d been doing the long-distance thing when he proposed, and I’d loved London instantly. I knew no one in the city but Riley and was so glad Mitch was happy to share his friends.
I just didn’t know how far the sharing went.
“My maid of honor was more my male of honor. Riley is my oldest friend, but he broke his leg last week in a nasty rock-climbing accident in France. If he had been here . . .” At least it wouldn’t have been him Mitch was fucking. “You know, it was only when I stepped out into the aisle that I noticed how small our wedding was. How few of the guests were my real friends. That’s weird, right?” I don’t wait for his response, especially as it might include pushing me out of a moving car. “I told myself it was because it was such short notice—my visa conditions meant we had to be married quickly.” Within six months. “That I couldn’t expect my real friends to travel. But the truth is, I never invited them. I half assed my own wedding. Can you believe that?”
“Hindsight is a wonderful thing,” he murmurs.
“I guess the silver lining is there were less people to witness the travesty.” I blow out an unsteady breath. “I wish Riley was here.”
“What would he do for you?”
“Get me drunk. Let me vent. Help me plot Mitch’s death.” The enormity of my situation hits me in a heavy wave. “Be here for me, because, right now, I don’t have . . .” Anyone to turn to. “. . . my phone or my wallet or anywhere to go. I don’t even have shoes!” My eyes sting as I hold out my feet and stare down at pink painted toes sheathed in grubby silk stockings. “All I have is this damn dress and veil, and a thousand dollars’ worth of lingerie!” I cry, throwing up my hands. Then I cringe. Boy, do I cringe. “Forget I said that.”
“I don’t think I will.”
“Try. Please.”
“You’ve already established I’m not chivalrous. However, if you’d like to know if you overpaid, I’d happily offer my opinion.”
“Good try,” I say with a soft chuckle. “You know, contrary to popular opinion, women don’t buy underwear to please men.”
“Not even for their wedding night?”
“You’re still not looking.”
“My offer stands. Meanwhile, perhaps I can stand in for your best friend.”
“How do you mean?” I turn to face him.
“I could do what Riley would do for you.”
“I think I’ve inconvenienced you enough.” I’m desperate, not a charity case. Or maybe what I am is a desperate charity case. “You said yourself, you would’ve left me on the sidewalk five minutes ago.”
“That was before we were friends.” His tone suddenly turns velvety.
“Friends.” I sound less convinced. “Well, Riley would supply alcohol.”
“We’ll toast to your close escape.”
“And hold my hair when I vomit.”
“I think I might make a more responsible friend than Riley,” he answers with another wintry twist of his lips.
“How can we be friends when I don’t even know your name?”
“Oliver Deubel.” He holds out his hand.
“The fourth?” I blurt out.
“There’s only one of me.”
“Right. Good. Evelyn Fairfax. Evie to my friends.”
“Also to your ex-fiancé.” His thumb slides over my knuckle, and I force back a shiver. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Evelyn.” Something in his delivery seems to dare me to protest, but I can’t muster a retort, his gaze licking at my insides like a flame. “I should probably warn you, I make a terrible friend.”
Chapter 3
OLIVER
“Welcome back, Mr. Deubel.” The doorman bids us welcome with a wide smile as he pulls on the door.
“George.” I incline my head, pressing my hand to the small of Evelyn’s back as I steer her into a darkened interior. She’d removed her veil in the car, leaving her neck and the graceful slope of her sun-kissed shoulders bare. As if her silky-looking skin wasn’t temptation enough, she has a tiny beauty spot partly obscured by the lace of her dress. It makes me wonder what other treasures her dress is hiding.
Like that thousand dollars’ worth of underwear.
Was her reveal accidental or a blatant come-on? I force my head from her underwear. I’m not going there, figuratively or . . .
“Looks fancy,” she whispers over her shoulder.
Ignoring darker impulses, I take the opportunity and press my lips next to her ear. “At least we won’t have a problem with the dress code.”
She looks so delicate. So small. She’d look so delightful riding my cock.
Or not.
“There’s a dress code?” Her lashes flutter as though disconcerted by the news rather than the shiver that ripples through her at my tone.
“Yes.” My answer makes the tiny, escaped curl at her temple dance. I curl my hand into a fist to stop myself from touching it. It’s an automatic reaction, I tell myself. A small pleasure. Damsels in distress are not my thing, especially ones foolish enough to be taken in by Atherton. “No denim, no canvas, no shorts or T-shirts, nothing outlandish.”