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)
“London is a long way from Connecticut, but so is across the street when you’re marrying the wrong man.” With the reluctant reveal, she turns her attention to the window, offering me her profile. Her upturned nose and the way the light hits her evoke the look of another era.
“A mother’s intuition,” I venture. A pity she hadn’t shared it, because Mitchell Atherton is a grade A prick.
“Her objection wasn’t personal. They’d never met. Just as well, I guess,” she adds with a sly grin. “Hadley women never do anything as lowbrow as cause a scene.”
“Apparently, most Hadley women don’t know what they’re missing.”
“Fond of making an ass of yourself, are you?” Both skepticism and a smile leak into her words.
“Fond, no. But it has happened.” And I have her bastard of an ex to thank for that.
“It’s no surprise I’m living on this side of the pond. My parents are so . . . emotionally constipated. Meanwhile, I seem to be suffering from the opposite of that affliction.” She presses her hands to her face as her shoulders begin to shake.
“Eve?” Her name springs from my lips. Eve, not Evelyn and certainly not Evie. I like it. It feels appropriate.
“Oh, man.” As she sits up, I realize she’s not crying but laughing. “And I thought I was done embarrassing myself today.”
“Where is George?” I glance in the direction of the door.
“George was the doorman, right?”
“Yes, but I meant George the waiter. He’s not usually so slow.”
“Wait.” She cants her head to one side. “The waiter and the doorman are both called George?”
“Everyone who works here is referred to as George. They answer to the name for convenience.”
“Theirs or yours?”
“I imagine that could run both ways. It’s a tradition. Nothing else.”
“What about the women? Are they called George too?” she asks, unimpressed.
“Georgina.” I stick to a one-word answer. Better I don’t mention that women, both as guests and as employees, are a relatively new concept here.
“Who would’ve thought there was somewhere more elitist than the country club,” she mutters flatly.
“I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.” When I feel like it. “The men of my family have been members of this place for generations, and while it wouldn’t be at the top of my list of places to take a guest, I thought it might be the place that would provoke the least attention.” My gaze dips briefly to her gown, and she doesn’t miss my meaning, that rush of heat burning up her pale throat again.
“You’re right, that was rude. I’m not usually so—”
“Fractious,” I offer at the same time as she adds, “Crotchety.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Deubel.” George the waiter appears, as silent as a wraith. A widely smiling wraith.
“Ah, George. Would you mind answering a question for me?”
“Not at all, but I think I can preempt it by saying steak-and-kidney pudding—and honestly, I wouldn’t. There’s also wild duck with an orange jus, which is”—he presses his gathered fingers to his lips.
“Chef’s kiss,” Eve supplies.
“Exactly!” He turns a smile her way.
“Thank you, George, but my question wasn’t about the menu. I was wondering if you mind being referred to as George while you’re at work.” A pointless question. Of course he’ll say it’s not an issue. But if it makes Eve feel better . . .
“It’s better than being called Cyril.”
“Was that the other choice?” Eve asks.
“No, that’s my actual name. Unfortunately.”
“Oh, well, you don’t look like a Cyril,” she soothes.
“That’s because I’ve got all my own teeth.” The thirtysomething gives a resigned shrug. “I was named after my grandfather.” He takes a deep breath before beginning again. “On behalf of the establishment, may I offer you both my congratulations?” He beams Evelyn’s way, but she’s already shaking her head.
“Oh, but we’re—”
“Keeping it to ourselves for the time being,” I interject. “And thank you, George. That’s very kind of you. We can count on your discretion, of course.”
“Of course,” he agrees, puffing his chest out. “You’ll want champagne?”
Eve’s eyes dart my way. “That is . . .”
“An excellent suggestion.”
“I have just the thing,” he announces before bustling off again.
“The smiles begin to make sense,” I murmur, plucking an imaginary piece of lint from my trouser leg. A woman in a wedding dress? Of course that must mean I’ve gotten hitched! As if I’d bring my bride for a pint and a cheese-and-pickle sandwich to celebrate. As if I’d ever shown interest in tying myself to one woman.
When I glance up, I find Eve looking at me, doing her inquisitive-terrier impersonation again. “Why did you tell him we’re married?”
“Did I? I thought I just went along with his assumption.”
“Yeah, but why?” she asks, lowering her voice to a whisper.
“I didn’t want to cause you any more discomfort.” It’s a simple explanation but one I find, on reflection, is true. I acted on instinct rather than with any kind of ulterior motive. I did it because I find I want to make her day a little better. Or at least, not any worse. How uncharacteristic of me. I suppose everyone has an off day now and again.