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)
“Or in this case, a horse’s arse,” I murmur, returning to scanning the text, the crux of which is:
Mitchell admits he cheated.
He agrees he deserved being abandoned at the altar.
Very big of him, especially when:
He denies he deserved the level of humiliation he was served.
The absolute wanker.
He also implies that Eve might also have been unfaithful after he found her being whisked from the scene by another man.
He stops short of naming me. He knows I’d sue him just for the hell of it. But Eve. Ah, Eve. What a shit Atherton is.
“This is nothing to worry about. Anyone with half a brain would see this for what it is.”
“I still hate him.”
“As is your right.”
“Did you see the post before it? Scroll down a little.”
I do, though this time, I’m prepared. Unlike last night. My expression barely flickers at the image of Eve looking all kinds of lovely, her hand resting over Fin’s. Despite my outward calm, internally I still feel fiery. Which is ludicrous, given she barely tapped Fin’s hand in reprimand to some stupid comment he made.
“Silly, isn’t it?”
“Absurd,” I answer, surprised by the evenness of my tone.
“You’re not worried it’ll cause a glitch in our relationship matrix?”
“No.” I try not to frown. “But it is borderline libelous.”
“We should sue their asses, then make Mitchell choke on my dick!” Her fist thumps the table, making the silverware dance. Bo barks and jumps up, trotting off to investigate the phantom knock on the door.
“I told you he’s not the brightest.” I could be referring to Bo or her ex. Or both.
“He is such a . . .” Eve presses her fingers to her temples as though to stem a sudden ache. “This implies I am as bad as him. I am nothing like him.”
“Of course you aren’t.”
“But people talk.” She can’t hide her concern as her eyes find mine.
“Gossip is the tax you pay for other people’s insecurities.” I reach out, cupping her cheek. “Your dignity can never be taken away from you, no matter what they say.”
“I like that.”
“Good, because it’s true. Fuck them, and fuck what they say. As for this”—I hand back her phone—“don’t give it another thought. Privacy laws in the UK are very strong. Perhaps my legal team can get an injunction. At least, stop them peddling more lies.”
“Do you think so?”
“I don’t see why not.” I make the mistake then of swallowing another mouthful of now-very-cold coffee before pushing back my chair.
“I know what you’re saying—that it doesn’t matter—but if you could get this taken down, I’d appreciate it so much.”
“Leave it with me.” I press my hand to her shoulder, taken aback as she reaches for it, and a pleasant warmth spreads through me.
How strange. It does feel good to sometimes be a Romeo.
“Andrew, get me Warner-Jones,” I say, striding through the office an hour later, the embers of Eve’s gratitude still warming my insides.
“She’s on holiday, Mr. Deubel. The Seychelles.”
“And that’s supposed to interest me why?” I pause, turning back to face him.
“No reason,” he replies. “I just thought I’d mention it. You know, in case you didn’t want to disturb her and her new wife on their honeymoon.”
“When you’re the source of her income, therefore the person who paid for her wedding, you can make that call. Until then, Andrew. . .” I point at the phone.
I pay my lawyer an exorbitant amount for her expertise. And for her office to be available to me whenever I need it.
“Got it. Oh, she did send this through for your approval already.”
I open the folio he hands me to find details of Eve’s visa application, then snap the thing shut as another thought hits. A less pleasant one. One that makes her warmth dim.
“Wait.” Andrew stills at my raised finger, unmoving as I process my idea. It’s one that’s very much at odds with what I promised Eve earlier. Romeo or not, this might prove a better payoff. “I want you to do something else for me instead. There’s a journalist by the name of Una something or other.” I wave away the details as insignificant. “She’s a freelance digital journalist, I understand, though she claims to write for the City Chronicle.”
While I understand Eve’s concerns, away from her, my mind is clearer; my own objectives are more pronounced. While my body might argue the case for her gratitude, my brain knows I have more pressing plans.
“City Chronicle,” Andrew repeats, noting the information in his iPad.
“I want you to set up a call with her. Today.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Which is why the call will be today, Andrew.”
“Right,” he affirms with a nod as I turn and make my way into my office.
“Well, good morning,” drawls an ironic tone.
My gaze moves to Fin, sprawled out on the Eames-style leather sofa. “You should come in more mornings,” I say. “It’s doing wonders for your term of address.”