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)
But what’s done is done. The only person you can really rely on is yourself, anyway. And I’ve been pretty much on my own since Trousseau began impersonating a beetle spinning on its back. I had to lay people off, and though they said they understood, it turns out their friendships were just transactional.
Other than my grandmother, the only person I have in my life is Ronny, Baba’s next-door neighbor’s daughter. Bright, caustic, irreverent Ronny. She’s an unpolished diamond who deserves better than life on a crumbling housing estate teeming with drugs and knife crime.
Home sweet home. The place I worked so hard to be free of, only to find myself back there again.
I give my head a shake, forcing myself into the here and now. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again, but right now, it’s time to put my game face on. Or maybe something a little softer than grimly determined.
Sarai gives my hand a reassuring squeeze before stepping in front of me, her flowing summer dress perfect for the part. I know Evie didn’t plan for bridesmaids, but having Sarai by my side has meant I’ve been less in my head. She’s cajoled and snarked and generally pushed me along, and no one would guess she wasn’t part of the original wedding party.
My stomach flips as I follow, keeping my eyes on her slim back as she moves along the flower-strewed aisle. The effect turned out so pretty.
I glance at my feet, the punk rock silver-studded tips of my shoes peeking from beneath the beaded chiffon. The flowers draping the dais are gorgeous, and even the hastily added voile looks perfect. Though it obscures those million-dollar views, it also screens us somewhat from those potentially prying eyes out in the bay.
The guitarist plays beautifully, and I find myself thinking what a good decision it was to go with the hotel’s choice of vendor. But these thoughts are just a distraction—my mind’s attempt to stop me from focusing on my destination.
My pretend groom, that tall drink of water. And possibly the reason I feel so parched.
Step, together.
He’s too good looking to be real.
Step, together.
Except I’ve touched him, so I know he is.
Step, together.
I’m doing it for the money.
Step, together.
For Baba. For Trousseau. For me.
Step, together.
And not because of the way he’s looking at me.
Like he wants to open me up and conduct a full autopsy of my thoughts.
I reach the end of the aisle, and Sarai reaches for my bouquet, then steps to the side. Fin takes my hands, and even looking through the veil, I find his eyes so striking. His lashes—long like a camel’s—are about the same shade as his dyed hair and curled beautifully. The effect should be wrong on a man, but an unfair god has made sure of the opposite. Then I notice something else, and my hand lifts to his face before I can stop it.
“You’ve shaved.”
Chapter 6
Fin
“Does that mean you recognize me now?”
Her smile falters, the movement of her hand turning tentative. When it looks like she might pull away, I cover her hand with my own, pressing it to the contour of my cheek. As I slide her thumb over the smooth skin above my lip, her pretty eyes widen beneath the netting.
“I . . .” Fluttering lashes and a dash of discombobulation complete such a lovely effect.
“Half-grown Chia Pet” my ass.
I bite back my smile. The ’stache was magnificent, and I was attached to it. Unless we’re being literal, in which case it’s more like it was attached to me. I’d planned to shave it off today as a kind of wedding gift to Oliver. It had already served its original purpose in proving to him he liked me more than he hated it. I considered the threat of it fair punishment after he’d shit talked the ’stache for months, even going as far as making idle threats to replace me as his best man.
But given the change in circumstances and the reduction in my role (or the elevation of it, depending on your perspective) I would’ve kept it a little longer. I’d grown to like the thing. Sure, some people said it made me look like a 1980s TV detective (Evie) or an aging porn star (Matt), but it had its uses. When asked a question during work conferences and consultations, I’d learned to pause, then stroke it, achieving a pensive kind of effect. It was a perfect cover for boredom, inattention, and general navel-gazing.
I would practice a mediative caress to suggest I was paying attention to a date. That had come in useful, as my love life has been pretty boring lately. It’s felt a lot like a repeat of the same scene. Like I’d order a meal from a restaurant, but somehow the kitchen would keep sending me out the same dish. Night after night.