Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Oh God, no.
Belinda is still pissed and up early making calls. It’s the only explanation.
Maya’s going to kill me. I’m going to kill me. How could I—
“Morning, darling.”
I yip in surprise, nearly jumping out of my skin and sending the laptop flying. I manage to catch it—thank God for small miracles—and clutch it to my chest as I spin to see Oliver standing in the hall. He’s wearing boxer briefs and nothing else and, unlike yours truly, looks even better naked in the daylight. He’s all muscles and the perfect dusting of dark hair and dancing blue eyes so warm and happy to see me, I almost forget he’s a dirty liar who lies.
Almost.
“How could you do this?” I demand, the words emerging shakier than expected. But then, I’m pretty darned “shook” right now.
His smile falters. “Do what?”
“Lie to me. Trick me. You said your name was Olly,” I say, rolling my shoulders back in hopes it will help me feel less small. “Not Oliver with some other names in the middle, Featherswallow. I’m no fan of the peerage, but even I know that name.”
“Because it’s ridiculous,” he supplies with a charmingly self-effacing smile, I refuse to fall for.
“Exactly,” I agree. “If you’d said Featherswallow, I would have known who you were and had at least some idea of what I was getting into. But you didn’t say it, because you didn’t want me to know. You wanted to keep me in the dark until it was too late, and I was a national laughing stock.”
He frowns. “What? Emily, I—”
“More like an international laughing stock,” I cut in, my voice cracking. “Everyone in New York and New Jersey has seen the pictures, too. As well as my sister in Switzerland and God knows who else.”
He drags a hand through his hair. “Fuck. How did this happen? We were completely alone!”
“Except that we weren’t,” I say, fighting tears. “And now our lamppost erotica is all over the internet. Hell, the entire world probably has an opinion about the pudgy disaster you were making out with in the snow last night by now.”
His gaze hardens. “Has someone said that about you? If so, I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “You can’t do anything. You’re fifth in line to the throne, for God’s sake. You have to behave yourself and be a good little Viscount’s baby brother. I know how the royal stuff works.” I sniff. “And you’ll be fine anyway.” I stuff my laptop back into its sleeve with shaking hands. “You’re a hot single guy. It’s the rest of us who are cannon fodder for the monsters of the internet.”
“I’m so sorry, Emily. Truly,” he says, the pleading note in his voice making it harder to fight the tears stinging into my eyes. “Let’s just calm down, take a beat, and then—”
“It’s not fair, Olly,” I force out, blinking faster as I turn to meet his gaze. “You let me think you were just a guy drinking at a bar. A nice guy, who was kind of a sarcastic shit at first, but then turned out to be…pretty great.” His handsome face swims as I add in a whisper, “You lied to me.”
He exhales a rush of breath, his forehead furrows deepening as he says, “I didn’t, Em. I wasn’t lying, I promise. I was just…withholding.”
“Withholding,” I echo with a sharp laugh. “Well, the next time you decide to withhold, be decent enough to be discreet about it. That way, the next woman who’s dumb enough to go home with you won’t have to wake up to internet abuse and the possible end of her career.”
“It’s not going to be the end of your career. I won’t allow it.” He steps closer and I back away, nearly tripping over my roller bag. “Listen, I have connections in high places, I can—”
“I bet you do,” I say, hating the tears now streaming down my cheeks. “But I don’t. And I have to go.”
My laptop pings in my purse.
I gulp and swipe at my eyes. “That’s probably another florist, texting to let me know that they don’t work with people Belinda Moore hates. She’s turned the entire London floral industry against me, and it’s not even eight o’clock.”
“Emily, please, I can help,” he insists. “I promise I can.”
“You’ve helped enough,” I say, stuffing my feet into my ruined shoes. “I just need to find my phone, get out of here, and call my business partner before she has a nervous breakdown.” I bite my lip, fighting a fresh wave of tears. “But I’ve already looked everywhere, and I can’t find my phone, so it’s probably lost to a snow drift somewhere and—”
“No, it’s not,” he cuts in. “It’s on top of the fridge.”
I blink. “Wh-what?”
“It’s on the fridge,” he says, a sheepish expression on his face. “I may have put it there last night after you said you were leaving first thing in the morning.”