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)
How can he understand me if . . . How can he do this?
Time slows as he turns to me, the audience sucked away as though by a sudden vacuum. A look crosses his face, and for a moment, I’m in Garrard, on that damn sofa again, my heart lifting as my brain cells shift into negative numbers.
“Eve,” he says huskily, as his hand slides into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a tiny velvet box, the light catching its tiny golden clasp.
“I almost did this a few weeks ago. I’m not sure if you noticed.” Uncertainty flickers in his expression, but it’s so fleeting, it might be a trick of the light. “I saw before me the first in a lifetime of moments—shared laughter, loving, living. Hand in hand. And then I chickened out.”
Canned laughter. A hoot of encouragement. My chest feels hollow, my heart pounding like the warning beat of a drum. He moves to open the box.
Chocolate and peanut butter, umbrellas held over my head in the rain. His jacket over my shoulders, his strong arms wrapped around my waist. Tiara dress-ups and thrift shopping for tight leather pants.
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
I tried to fight my feelings, didn’t I? I think, as a sense of something washes over me. It’s not déjà vu. At least, not in the traditional sense. More like an insight.
My heart just ran ahead of itself.
I’m not the slow-boiling frog this time. I jumped into the steaming pot with my eyes wide open. I threw myself into the idea of him, the idea of us. We love, yes, but this feels wrong. How can his heart choose mine if this is how he would seek to tell the world? This is not a moment to be shared as part of a business deal.
“Eve, my darling.” The lid pops, diamonds glitter, and my apprehension tilts to certainty.
This isn’t like before, because it hurts. I need to trust myself. Trust him. But how can I?
This is a mistake I can’t risk twice.
“Stop.” My voice surprises me, ringing out, my fingers curling against his shoulder. “You’re making a mistake,” I whisper.
The collective inhale seems almost familiar.
“Eve?” Oliver’s brow furrows. That flickering expression from before? It settles this time.
“I can’t marry you.”
“Darling—”
“No. I can’t.” This is not honesty. This is not our moment. “I’m sorry,” I say, turning away. Sorry for Mandy. For the animals. Sorry for making Oliver look at me that way. “Check out lot sixty-nine,” I say as I step away. Something wet trails down my cheek. “Bid big, ladies. Oliver Deubel is a heartbreaker, but he really will show you the time of your life.”
Chapter 45
OLIVER
A Little Bird Told Us . . .
it’s business as usual for our ditched billionaire London beau as he returns to his swanky office. But what happened to his American vet?
One man jilted at the altar. One man’s proposal publicly rejected at a charity gala.
Is it her? Is it them?
One thing’s for sure, this Little Bird has to admire her style of public breakups.
#EliverNoMore
Like a scab on the skin I can’t help but pick, I scour the digital news daily, wondering if I’ll find a hint of her. In the days that follow, the tabloid press seems to haunt me, hanging around outside the office, shouting my name as I leave the hotel. It used to be I found A Little Bird’s inclusions a trial, but those now seem like simpler days.
A sordid love triangle and a stately home? The media has made a meal of our lives.
“I see you’ve shaved.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, not bothering to look up. “I decided a beard wasn’t really my style.” At first, a beard was easier. Especially as I couldn’t stand the sight of my own face, but it made me so itchy, I wanted to rive it off.
“Agreed.” Matt’s feet sound against the carpet, the leather barely creaking as he lowers himself to a chair on the other side of my desk. “It’s not like it hid how shit you look anyway.”
I lift my eyes from my laptop. “I’m not in the mood for another pep talk.”
“Good. I’m not in the mood for giving one. And that was an insult.” A pause. “Any news?”
“News?”
“Don’t be an eejit.”
“No.” I inhale until my lungs ache. “No news. Just old news. She left.” She left me. I can still see her walking from the gallery, head held high, the horde parting like the Red Sea for Moses. Then closing over her absence.
Love is the most exquisite path to self-destruction.
Why do I miss her so much?
Matt clears his throat, and I blink, coming back to the present. It’s really shit here.
“It’s what you do now that might make the difference,” he begins.
“The fact that she left says it all. She doesn’t want to be with me. And let’s face it.” My seat creaks as I lean back in it. “Who would blame her?”