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 I don’t look like Evie!”
“No, you look like Mila. And that’s the way I like it. I’d just like to see a little more of her.”
Something like surprise flickers across her face as the compliment hits.
“That cannot be news to you.”
“But we’re supposed to be them,” she says, disregarding the question as she slides the dark sunglasses to the top of her head. “And Evie is . . .” She rolls her lips together and swallows. “We’re just built differently.” Her words fall in a rush. “And if there are cameras out there, we want them to think we’re them—that we’re Evie and Oliver.”
“You’re really committed to this.”
“Of course I am. I take my job very seriously. Even the unorthodox bits.”
I feel myself frown. “But what happened last night wasn’t part of your job description.”
“No.” Her gaze flickers away, then back. “Not last night. But Evie and Oliver can’t ever know what happened. And even if we don’t tell them, there’s still a chance they might find out,” she adds, pointing to the window. “They put their trust in me, and I can’t have them think I’m some kind of—”
“Mila.” Her name on my lips sounds like an ache as I press my hands to her upper arms, ducking my gaze to meet hers. “They won’t hear a word of this.”
“You don’t know that. I don’t think you understand this would reflect badly on us both.”
“They’d blame me. You can, too, if it helps. Or Sarai.”
“I’m to blame too,” she says with a sigh. “I was doing fine until the photographer arrived. Next thing, I’m allowing her to administer narcotics with barely a blink.”
“How about I thank you instead?”
“Please try to remember I’m getting paid for this.”
There she goes, fooling herself again.
“And you pride yourself on overdelivering,” I say without a hint of irony.
“Exactly. Which is why I thought you could wear this.” She turns from the waist, turning back with a pink straw fedora in her hands.
I stare at the piece of hideousness.
“To hide your face,” she adds.
“You don’t like my face?” I know that’s not true. Just like I know she wasn’t getting paid to ride it last night. An observation I’ll keep to myself. “Oh, you’re serious.” I glance at the hideous hat between her hands.
“Of course I’m serious. You don’t look a thing like Oliver.” Her eyes dip and slide over me in a way that isn’t complimentary.
Does she have a thing for Oliver? I kinda thought she was intimidated by him, like most people. But then my mind jumps to the things she said last night. The compliments she purred while sprawled across my chest. And then the morning came, and with it, her denials.
“Something happened to make me that way,” she said. And then she found self-protection in the shrooms, along with the comfort of telling herself that a little vodka stole her inhibitions.
And some of that is the truth, but the rest she pulled deep from her dreams. I know because she confessed she’d been conjuring me in them.
“When I’m alone and I think of you, I touch myself.”
Me too. Mila. Me fucking too.
No, she’s not into Oliver. Which my skin corroborates as her eyes skate over me a second time.
“You’ll wear the hat.” She thrusts the fedora into my hands. “And I’ll wear this. Then no one will be any the wiser. What are you smiling about?” she demands, suddenly narrow eyed with suspicion.
“The hopefully not-too-grainy images of Oliver Deubel wearing a hot-pink fedora on the City Chronicle’s website,” I say, feeding the brim between my fingers. He’ll blow a gasket. Maybe sue. God, I hope there are photos. “I’ll tell you what.” I throw the hat into the air, catch it, then flip it onto the top of my head. “I’ll wear the hat if you lose the circus tent.”
“But they’ll know I’m not Evie,” she protests, flustered. Or frustrated. Or maybe just plain annoyed.
“They’ll probably just print that you—she—had a breast augmentation.”
Her hands move to her chest, as though her breasts have delicate ears, and the action immediately conjures an image from my memories. Dark hair and pale sheets, her expression sated, and her eyes heavy lidded. Her hands over her breasts, nipples pebbled and peeking from between her spread fingers.
Fuck. Maybe board shorts were the wrong choice. They don’t leave a lot to the imagination. Can’t go to the beach half-cocked.
Dick cancer. Prostate exam. The baby’s yours. Erection be gone!
I can’t go to the beach half-cocked . . . but maybe Oliver could.
“I’m sure that will be super helpful!”
At Mila’s retort, my thoughts snap back.
“Right alongside the story of her recent Brazilian butt lift.”
“You don’t need one?”
“I know that! It’s more that I need lipo.” Her lips clamp together, becoming thin, pale lines.
“You leave that ass alone.”
“What are you even—”