Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Fin is flames,” she says, shaking her hand as though her nail polish is wet rather than just glossy. “He’s such a zaddy.”
“He is?”
“Yeah, he’s got it goin’ on. Don’t act like you don’t see it!”
“I’ve got eyes, Sarai. Even if I don’t know what I’m looking at. I mean, what even is a zaddy?”
“Fin is like a daddy but leveled up. He’s a little older, super hot, a snappy dresser . . .” She shrugs. “The man has serious rizz.”
“This is like another language,” I mutter, killing what little “hip” social currency I have. Though maybe using the word hip means I have negative social currency.
“Rizz. You know—charisma.”
“Oh.” Sarai, and Ronny, make me feel ancient. But I suppose I’ve always been older than my years. “He does seem like he could be charming,” I hedge. I have experienced that charm. Not that I’m about to admit it.
“A total zaddy, but in answer to your question, no I don’t mind. Fin is old enough to be my dad.”
“Is he?”
“Technically, yeah. You bet he knows what it’s like to be called daddy.”
“You mean he has—”
“In the bedroom.” She gives a little squeal. “A zaddy on the streets and a daddy between the sheets.”
“This conversation is very inappropriate,” I answer, mildly horrified. Mainly because I can see it, but I must ignore it as I press my elbows on the dresser and my fingers to my temples.
More than rizz or good looks, Fin has a gives-no-fucks, I’ve got my shit together energy. And for someone whose life shit is currently falling apart, that could be kryptonite. If I let it, which I won’t. I will categorically not be hitting that a second time.
Not that we quite . . .
Stop!
The bottom line is there are two very important reasons why I won’t be sleeping with my soon-to-be pretend husband. First, it would be unprofessional, especially given he’s the close friend of my clients. Who are paying me to pretend marry him. And I am a person who prides themself on their professionalism.
Second is the fact they’re paying me. I’d have to be completely bonkers to risk the kind of figure that has the potential to turn my life around.
“He totally gives off hot daddy vibes.” Sarai sighs. “Like he’d take care of you in and outside of the bedroom. Be firm but gentle. Take charge but make you feel safe.”
“You sound like you’ve given this a lot of thought.” Like she is crushing on him.
“Nah,” she answers with a shrug. “I just spend a lot of time on the internet.”
It’s probably too late to restrict her internet privileges, I think as I reach for the clasp on my chain and loosen it from my neck. I place it carefully on the dresser and slide my finger over the blue agate eye. The absence of it feels strange, even if it hasn’t been much good in terms of warding off ill intentions.
“Obviously, my dad would put me in a monastery if he heard me say any of this.”
“Nunnery,” I say, massaging my temples again. Maybe I should dig out a couple of the fun-size vodkas I keep on hand for anxious brides.
I’m anxious. And I’m a bride. I qualify.
“No, a monastery. My mom is Buddhist. Dad might run the resort, but my mom rules the roost. All four feet ten of her. But to answer your question, I’m cool with you marrying Fin.”
I don’t bother correcting her this time.
“Besides, it’s not like I can complain when I’m making bank because of it.”
“You are? How?”
Sarai gives a defensive tilt of her head. “Hot Mr. Moneybags promised me five thou for helping you.”
“Mr. Deubel? Oliver, I mean?” She nods, and I frown. “He probably wanted to make sure I didn’t run away.”
“Where would you go? We’ve had all the boats locked up. Seriously, though, I would’ve been your maid of honor for free, but when he offered to pay . . .”
“It’s kind of you, money or not.” Can’t judge a girl for being enterprising, not when a tiny part of me is still judging myself. That old adage, Everyone has their price? Well, it seems I found mine. What I won’t allow is anyone else to judge me. Not unless they know exactly what it’s like to watch your business collapse. Feel your life unravel.
“Brides are supposed to have loads of attendants and stuff, aren’t they?”
“I think that’s fairy-tale princesses.” I indulge in a small smile. Sarai is like a breath of fresh air. Or maybe a sharp gust.
I never wanted the kind of wedding that comes with a dozen bridesmaids or, worse, hired ladies-in-waiting, which is an actual thing for some moneyed brides. Not that the white-glove approach is my business model, which is why I was surprised when Evie contacted me originally. Given Oliver’s status and cash (and her family background, according to the internet), I thought she would’ve gone with one of London’s more prestigious wedding planners. At least, until I met her.