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)
Speaking of clothing, I don’t know how the heck I’m going to get back to my room. I don’t have anything to wear other than this robe and Evie’s wedding dress.
I turn to take in the stunning view over the Indian Ocean and wonder if I can arrange for the resort’s laundry service to clean and repair Evie’s gown before returning it to her London address. I’ve barely completed the thought when something snags my attention, and I do a double take. Is that my suitcase in the closet?
I find it is. And that it’s been unpacked, the contents now hanging from the rails. And looking quite sad. My small travel jewelry box and perfume have been arranged on the glass countertop and my undies and other stuff slotted into drawers.
I snap straight. Nope. This is not happening. I am not staying in the bridal suite this week—there’s only one bedroom! One bed. Our fake union might’ve been thoroughly consummated, but there’s no way I’m going in for seconds—or fourths? Fifths?
Swinging around, I stomp out of the closet, the slippers making an angry flip-flop sound. I’m so annoyed by the presumption of whoever is responsible for unpacking my small case. It’s a gross invasion of my privacy! Not to mention a touch embarrassing.
Whipping the wedding gown up from the floor, I’m hit by a wave of remembrance as I straighten. Fin brushing my hair over my shoulder. Unbuttoning this dress. Each inch of skin revealed kissed and complimented. I almost sense the weight of the fabric falling and hear the guttural sound he made as I turned.
He called me beautiful, and I tried to brush off the compliment, insisting he was the one too perfect to be real. Then I pressed my teeth to his pectoral muscle, as though to be sure he was.
My hand rises to my heated cheek. What must he think of me? I practically pounced on him like some desperate, feral thing.
From the swathes of tulle, something drops to the floor—papers, folded into a square. I stoop to pick them up, and I clamp the dress between my body and my elbow as I unfold the sheets. The first is a document in an unfamiliar script, but for my name. And Fin’s. And the second is—
“Oh. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, nooo!”
I drop the dress, almost tripping over it as I hurry into the living room, the papers clutched in my hand. “Fin? Fin!” I call desperately.
“What is it?” He steps into the suite from the private garden, fastening a downy white towel around his hips.
I halt, like I’ve slammed into a brick wall, because, horizontal, Fin was a temptation; but, vertical, Fin is a lot in my face. Almost literally. He is so well put together, every inch of him designed for the daylight. That face, the gold of his skin, and those shorn locks, all glistening.
But those lips of his? They were made for the night.
He reaches for the rope of muscle between his neck and shoulder, his forefinger disturbing the lazy path of a rivulet of water.
Not that I’m awed by his magnificence or anything. I can’t believe I said that, and I suffer through a second wave of embarrassment.
“My, my.” He begins to move closer with the grace and surety of a jungle cat. “What has your cheeks so pink, wifey?”
“High blood pressure, probably.” I ignore the imprint of my teeth and the heat of his sun-warmed skin as I press my hand to the center of his chest. Stop. Then I thrust the papers almost in his face.
His brows flicker. “What’s this?”
“Exactly. What is it?”
“It’s in Indonesian,” he says, unfurling the sheets. “And along with Japanese, I can’t—”
“This one.” Impatient, I pull the top sheet away so quickly, I’m surprised I don’t give either of us a paper cut.
“This is a marriage certificate.” His puzzled gaze lifts.
“That’s what I thought! Maybe because it has the words marriage certificate printed across the top.”
“Cute.”
“You know what isn’t cute? It appears that I’m married to someone called Phineas.”
“Huh.”
Why doesn’t he look even the tiniest bit uneasy? A man like him, Mr. London Player—wouldn’t he be running for the hills?
“So, Phineas would be me.”
“Phineas Alexander Gunning Colton DeWitt. Were you a really ugly baby, or did your parents just not like you?”
“I have it on good authority I was a delightful babe. I haven’t changed.”
I don’t so much roll my eyes as my whole body. Like a bad-tempered teenager, I mutter a string of curses under my breath.
“I thought you didn’t curse.”
“In case of emergencies, break swearing glass.” I mime a tiny-toffee-hammer pose. “Extreme circumstances call for extreme words.”
“Like during an extremely enjoyable orgasm?”
“Concentrate!” I demand, tapping the paper. “This. This can’t be real, can it? It’s got to be part of yesterday’s”—my eyes skate over him again, without my brain’s say-so—“shenanigans.”