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)
“He’s what?” Her expression twists.
“He seems to think he’s entitled to sympathy, according to an online article last week.”
“Women everywhere are cheering for you,” Una Smith had said. To use a Yara phrase, instead, she’s stitched me up.
“Sympathy!” Yara explodes. “That twat is this close to being strung up by a group of women in pink saris!” She holds her index finger and thumb half an inch apart.
“I was tempted.”
“Say the word, and I’ll put out the call. Because that Pulse video thingy is like an internet tutorial on how to get punched in the face by a stranger.”
“He was chased out of Brick Lane Market by women throwing fruit.”
“Excellent! Well done, the sisterhood! But that’s exactly what I mean—why the hell is he prolonging this? What’s he up to?”
Probably playing Oliver’s games. Or is Oliver playing Mitch’s games? It’s like the chicken and the egg—it’s hard to tell where the distaste and hate stem from. Well, there’s Lucy, my brain unhelpfully supplies. Lucy must be some girl to get a cool customer like Oliver to react this way.
“Who knows what that man thinks. And frankly, who cares? I should be thanking Jen for fucking him—oh, and they’re still seeing each other, apparently.” Or was that another A Little Bird edition he thought might stir me to action? Asshole.
“Jen.” Yara’s mouth pinches. “Didn’t anyone teach her ‘hos before bros’? ‘Breasties before testes’?”
“She can have him and his testes with my blessing. Without her lack of morals, I would’ve married a stranger. He never once mentioned he had money, that he owned that whole building he lived in.”
“That massive warehouse in Shoreditch? I thought he just rented his place there?”
“That’s what he said. But it’s his.”
“Wow, he must be minted.”
“A fact he forgot to mention. And here’s another thing that slipped his memory: he was on a dating show before we met.”
“Like The Bachelor?” Yara retches for effect.
“Worse. It was hot singles in a huge house on a tropical island, strutting around wearing nothing but shorts and bikinis for a drama-filled fuck fest.” I looked it up on YouTube and almost didn’t believe it was him. He was the posh boy of the group—he had an accent like Oliver’s!
I mean, who was that man?
The thought feels like a finger poking me in the middle of my forehead. Rich, posh, and manipulating, the pair could be twins. I mean, I’m stuck with Oliver, but at least he hasn’t hidden his bullshit.
“It would explain the continued media interest,” Yara says.
“Yeah.” I blow out an apathetic breath. “I thought once the Pulse Tok died down, that would be it. But it must be a slow news month in London if they’re chasing him as some kind of minor celebrity.”
Just another thing he must’ve forgotten to mention, along with his wealth, the scope of his business, and his tendency to dip his dick in other women.
“I’ve never heard of him. Well, not before you.”
“The show ran like, a decade ago.”
“So a Z-grade celebrity that no one gives a stuff about.”
“Unless they cheated on their fiancée and hit the viral algorithm on Pulse Tok.”
“It wasn’t his cheating that made the thing go viral. It was the way you handed him his arse at the altar.”
“Sometimes I wish I’d just walked away when I got those texts.”
“Ah, babe.” She gives me a one-armed hug. “Fuck that man. You’ll find someone else.”
I guess now would be the ideal opportunity to let her in on my big news. My big, fat, fabricated relationship.
“That’s the thing. I kind of have.” Yara, forgive me for making you part of the plot, but I can’t keep letting her think I’m living in squalor.
“So soon?” She doesn’t say you idiot, but her face does.
“Even sooner. I climbed into his car in my wedding dress, kind of fleeing the scene.”
Her eyes fly wide. “No way!”
“I know. He didn’t even kick me out.”
She starts to laugh, really laugh. But I don’t mind.
“Evie, you so should’ve made your own Pulse Tok.”
“Sure, that’s exactly where my mind was at when I’d just escaped marrying a serial cheater.” The dogs in the kennels suddenly begin to bark. “Now look, your donkey braying has set the dogs off.”
“Sorry,” she says, pressing her hand to her mouth, completely uncontrite. But her laughter is infectious. “In your wedding dress? You must’ve looked like a total mental case.”
“I think the phrase you’re looking for is damsel in distress.”
“Babes, you showed me the video. The aesthetic wasn’t distress, it was more murderous maniac.”
“Thanks,” I mutter with a slow shake of my head.
“Not that he didn’t deserve it. But this guy, he must be one of the good ones. Men these days are allergic to women in white dresses, you know.”
I bite my tongue. Good isn’t a word I’d use to describe Oliver, unless we’re talking about his bedroom skills. Or his proficiency at making me want to strangle him.