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)
Apparently not…
@BurmingFam: America called. They want their portion sizes back.
@LiamInLondon: She’s giving ‘lost tourist asking for the loo at Buckingham Palace’ vibes.
@Daisy553: American abroad starter pack: bad suit, bad shoes, bad decisions. God, if polyester could cry, that suit would be sobbing into a pint.
@Irish4Fabs: I can’t believe he went from Aisling to THAT?! Please, someone, make it make sense. MAKE IT MAKE SENSE!
I scroll through the latest batch of poison on the train, my jaw clenching harder with each swipe of my thumb.
“Maybe because Aisling loved fame more than anything on God’s green earth?” I mutter beneath my breath. “Including food, laughter, fun, and me? And on the rare occasions that she did laugh, she sounded like a constipated horse having an asthma attack.”
The old woman in the big blue muffler beside me shoots a narrow glance my way, clearly wondering if I’m a serious threat or simply a sociopath who doesn’t know how to keep my mouth shut on the tube.
Pressing my lips together, I tuck my chin tighter to my chest.
This isn’t the day to attract attention.
I’ve already done enough of that for one news cycle, a fact proven by the Twitter poll that pops up next on my feed:
@GlitterAndScandal: Emergency poll ladies:
Who styled our randy American?
A) Paddington Bear’s dry cleaner
B) An angry Primark mannequin
C) The lost & found bin at Heathrow
D) Her worst enemy (mission accomplished)
14,002 votes · Final results in 3h
She’d just gotten off a seven-hour flight, lugged her bags through a snowstorm, and crashed through a manger. Don’t these people have any empathy? Or capacity for reason?
And yes, the suit was bad, but the woman herself…
Well, she’s magnificent, truly one of the most beautiful women I’ve met in years. I seriously can’t understand the comments attacking her physical appearance. Are they fucking blind? I mean, Christ, those curves, that glorious Viking goddess hair, those eyes that threaten annihilation when she’s angry and set your soul on fire when she pulls you down for a kiss and—
I cut the thought off at the pass as I exit the train, refusing to let my brain start flipping through images from last night.
There’s no time for that. Not until I make this better. Because Emily isn’t just a sexy redhead who destroyed me in bed; she’s the whole brilliant, authentic, quick-witted package.
She deserves better than this.
And I’m going to make sure she gets it.
Up top, I pocket my phone and stride quickly through the busy streets before cutting through the Hyde Park Winter Wonderland crowd. The massive Christmas market is in full festive assault mode. Carousel music competes with carols piped through the speakers, and the scent of hot chocolate, cinnamon rolls, candy nuts, and gingerbread is thick in the crisp morning air.
And clearly, the children are already thoroughly sugar-infused and ready to rumble.
Just past the puppet theater, a small girl in a reindeer jumper crashes into my legs while chasing her brother, both of them shrieking with joy.
“Sorry, mister! Sorry!” she calls, waving over her shoulder as they race toward the hot chocolate stand.
I lift a hand in acknowledgement of her apology, holiday nostalgia tightening my chest as I watch them go.
Twenty-something years ago, that would have been Edward and me, running wild while Father pretended to be cross, but secretly egged us on with extra sticky buns and a promise to stay for the sweary puppet show they put on for the adults after the sun went down.
He loved a sweary puppet show. And a Christmas market and mulled wine and spoiling his boys with sweets and stealing kisses under the mistletoe until Mother laughed, threw her arms around his neck, and called him “simply awful.”
But he wasn’t awful.
He was so good and all love.
“Best time of the year, Olly. It really is,” he used to say, beaming at everyone we passed like they were long lost friends. ”We should always be like this. So full of joy and kindness and hope. Never lose hope, son. There’s so much good in the world. Love is going to win, one day. I just know it.”
It’s almost as if he knew his youngest son would grow up to be a man prone to a touch of nihilism. To seeing the evil in the world and deciding we might all be better off if a meteor sent humanity the way of the dinosaur.
The events of this morning certainly haven’t given me much reason for hope…
I shake off the melancholy before it can settle in. I have to keep moving.
There’s a lovely girl’s reputation to salvage.
Belinda Moore’s shop occupies a prim corner in Marylebone, between an organic deli and a children’s clothing store full of tiny hand-knitted jumpers. Her look is earnest-meets-expensive—a little rustic, a lot luxe. The window is a showstopper packed with white roses, silver branches, and cream-flower stags arranged like guardians protecting the realm. It’s equal parts “Claridge’s winter wedding” and “you’re paying for the story.”