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)
Especially this Christmas, when it would already be so easy to give up, crawl under the covers, and pronounce the world a miserable place, barren of joy, basic human decency, or holiday spirit.
But I can’t give in that easily.
I have to fight. For Emily. For myself. And for a reason to believe that there’s actually something worth celebrating in a world without my father in it.
The walk to Mayfair passes in a determined blur, my thoughts racing as I compose my arguments and counterarguments. By the time I reach the hotel, I have my strategy sorted.
Catching my reflection in the golden elevator doors at the back of the lobby, I straighten my collar. I look like what I am: a man of privilege on his way to a charity luncheon.
I can’t help that.
I am a man of privilege, but it’s what I do with that privilege that counts. Hopefully, today, I can employ it to ease the suffering of a lovely young woman.
Of course, Emily might not want saving. She made it pretty clear this morning that she wanted nothing more to do with me or my lying, lamp-snogging, fifth-in-line-to-the-throne face.
But people don’t always know what’s best for them. Sometimes they need a nudge in the right direction from someone with a clearer perspective.
I exit the lift with the confidence of a man on a mission of righteousness.
Emily Darling doesn’t know it yet, but she’s about to become my girlfriend.
I simply refuse to take no for an answer.
Chapter Eight
EMILY
It’s just after eleven, and so far, this day is proving that old adage that things can always get worse.
And worse and worse…
“Okay, so two more florists blacklisted you,” Maya calculates on the other end of the line, her voice surprisingly calm for someone doing catastrophic math. “That only makes five total. That’s not so bad! There are dozens of amazing florists in London.”
“Six,” I correct, pacing the length of my hotel room in bare feet, while I wait for my new shoes to be delivered. “The Rose Tattoo sent a ‘take your dumb face and go home,’ email while you were refilling your wine.”
“Oh, God,” she says, with another gulping noise. “I’m so glad it’s still night my time. If I couldn’t wine the pain away, I’d be having a panic attack right now. How are you holding up? I can’t imagine Earl Grey is taking the edge off.”
“I’m fine,” I assure her, wincing as I stub my toe on the desk leg.
My room is “very chic” as promised by the online reviews, but my standard is barely big enough for a proper panic pace. Every lap, I have to dodge the room service tray I ordered an hour ago—stress-eating scrambled eggs and blood sausage seemed like a good idea at the time, but now the congealing grease is making me nauseous—the desk, and a plush chair I refuse to sit in.
I don’t deserve comfort, not after the mess I’ve made.
“Seriously, this doesn’t make any sense,” Maya says. “You said the whole thing was an accident, right?”
“Yes, but I destroyed baby Jesus.” I spin at the window, turning away from the normal people living normal lives on the street below. People who aren’t watching their careers implode in real-time… “A floral baby Jesus constructed of outrageously expensive orchids that took twenty-something hours to make.”
“Sounds creepy if you ask me.”
“It was kind of creepy,” I admit, “but it was clearly very important to her. And I’m clearly now the devil who crushed the Messiah in his manger and must be vanquished at all costs.”
“And you apologized profusely?”
“Profusely,” I assure her. “I did everything but get down on the floor and beg, and that’s only because I was already on the floor when I started apologizing.”
Maya sighs. Curses. Then sighs again. “All right, well… We’ll just have to hope there are a few solid florists in London who don’t bend the knee to Queen Belinda. Looks like the Rousseau wedding is off the table for this summer, too, so we need to lock Fletchers down more than ever.”
“What?” I stop mid-pace, nearly tripping over my exploded roller bag. Apparently, stress brings out my messy side. “But we’ve been courting them for months! I sent them a custom proposal with hand-painted watercolors!”
“I know, they suck. I hate them. Whatever, though. Moving on.”
Smelling a rat, I demand, “What really happened, Maya? Tell me.”
She heaves a tortured sigh. “Fine. They just texted. Said they’re going with someone with a ‘more refined social media presence.’ Apparently, having a planner who’s trending for being a sexy minx whose milkshake brings all the English lords to the yard isn’t the vibe they want for their ‘elegant Southampton soirée.’ Which is ridiculous. Those pictures were hot. You were hot! And have they been alive lately? The gossip cycle moves so fast, you’ll be old news months before they send the final invitations. By January, no one will remember you were ever in London.”