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)
Evie: Sure. It’s not like anything else is happening in my life. As far as you know, I might’ve been mauled by a pack of rabid dogs and have died a terrible death.
Riley: No rabies in UK. I thought the unicorn fckd the conversation out of you bcz I hvnt heard frm u, either.
Evie: A tip? Text in whole words if you want to get laid. Not an offer, by the way.
Riley: Tetchy! Wanna swap war stories? I’m back home waiting for surgery on this leg. Gotta have external fixators fitted, like a damned Frankenstein cage.
Evie: Ouch! Also, thanks for telling me.
I guess that makes sense why he hasn’t been in contact.
Riley: I thought Lori would’ve.
Urgh! If she wasn’t such a bitch, I might not be in this predicament.
Riley: I win in the misery mistakes. A broken leg and I miss real mayonnaise. The French stuff. Miracle Whip is like pasteurized hobgoblin jizz.
Evie: Did your mommy make you a sandwich?
Riley: An inedible one. She’s driving me crazy. Can’t wait to get out of here.
Evie: I’m sorry, Riley. Let me know how the surgery goes or if there’s anything you want me to do.
Riley: Tell me which sandwich. I’m dreaming of food.
Evie: Pork belly bao from that place we went in Oxford Circus.
Riley: Nice! Hey, as you’re offering, will you do me a favor?
Evie: Shoot.
Riley: Arrange to get my stuff sent from the hotel in France?
A friend in need is a pain in the ass, even when you’re feeling sorry for him.
Evie: Send me the name of the hotel and I’ll see what I can do.
I no sooner put down my phone then it buzzes again. I blow out a frustrated breath, though I make sure not to curl my toes again. I’m expecting Riley to have added something to my shit-to-do list. But it’s Yara.
Yara: Just so I’ve got this right, Oliver is only *one* of Europe’s most eligible men.
It seems someone’s been reading the City Chronicle.
Evie: You can’t believe everything you read in the tabloids.
Yara: I’m disappointed in you. You should’ve hung out for *the* most eligible man.
Evie: Ha. Funny. Just like my life.
Yara: Has he got any brothers? Step or otherwise? Second cousins twice removed, but not removed too far from the (I’m guessing) inherited wealth? Asking for your friend. Because I’m not jealous of the hot man in the snazzy suit. Or the Bentley I saw parked outside of Nora’s as I got into my ancient Fiat Punto the other day.
Evie: Your Fiat Punto is better than my ride.
Yara: Your ride is a billionaire.
What follows is a row of laughing emoji, followed by eggplants.
Evie: How did the war of the red panties go the other night?
Yara: A seamless change of topic? No blood was shed though I did think of euthanizing them both. I also thought of you being railed enthusiastically by the hot billionaire when they were shouting at each other.
Evie: I don’t know how to respond to that.
Yara. I wasn’t imagining you going at it! More like . . . and here I am with this pair of fuckwits. The words DICKING and DOWN sprung to mind. Just so you know, as your friend, I am here for the vicarious living.
Evie: I’ll bear that in mind.
God knows what she’d think if I told her the truth. Probably that I’m an idiot for fooling myself into believing that anything good could come of this. All he ever does is veer from sweet to asshole, then back again.
Yara: He let you into his car in a wedding dress. That man is down to be your rebound. And I KNOW someone who looks as buttoned up as that has GOT to be a little freaky under those fancy threads.
Evie: Those fancy threads are exactly what make him not my type.
Maybe I should have that tattooed to the inside of my eyelids: I’m not into men with money.
Yara: Said no woman ever.
She sends me another line of laughing emoji.
But it’s true. Because men with money run roughshod over everyone.
Chapter 29
OLIVER
“What’s this?”
Suspicion fills Eve’s tone as she stares at the garment bag hanging on the brass luggage cart. She puts her phone on the table, still eyeing it suspiciously. A shoebox sits on the base, another containing a matching designer handbag.
“That’s your outfit for this evening.”
Her head turns to me slowly, her expression one of distaste and her answer one single word. “Nope.”
“No?” I can’t say I’m surprised, though I act as though I am.
“No, it’s not. See this? This is me, tapping the brakes.” The comedienne that she is, she lifts her foot as though testing invisible hydraulics. “I might have to go with you, but you can’t tell me what to wear.”
“I’m not trying to dictate to you. I just realized we hadn’t discussed what kind of function tonight is.”