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)
He claps his hands before making a little shooing motion my way. “Spit spot, off you go. I can step outside if you don’t want to change in the loo, but we need to be quick.” He glances at his watch. “We’ll need to leave in twenty minutes to make it on time, and that’s assuming traffic isn’t beastly on the way to Spencer House. My mother has zero patience for tardiness, and we’ll want a few minutes to spare for the introductions.”
My eyes go wide. “Oh, no, Oliver. I can’t. I couldn’t possibly.” I claw at the neck of my sweater, the cowl neck suddenly feeling too snug. “I can’t meet your mother. Not now, not today, right after—”
“Of course, you can,” he says. “Best to rip the bandage off and get the wound to healing.”
I frown. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“My metaphors aren’t the best after a night at the pub,” he says. “I just meant, it’s best to get last night behind us and set off again on the right foot. The luncheon will be the perfect place to start. My brother is the star of the day, the speakers will keep us from being forced into too much small talk, and we’ll show the world we’re a united front right away in…” He glances at his watch again. “Less than six hours from when the pictures dropped.” He shifts his focus back to me with a grin. “Pretty damned good, if I do say so myself.”
“B-but I don’t have anything to wear,” I say, instead of the dozen other anxious thoughts racing through my mind. “The airline lost my big suitcase, and I only have—”
“Right,” he cuts in. “Then, we’d best be off. There’s a dress shop at the end of the block. I’m sure they’ll have something in your size.” He grabs the box with my shoes inside and heads for the door. “Grab your coat, love. We have a dress to buy and a backstory to concoct before we feast on cold sandwiches and Christmas pudding.”
He pauses at the door, shooting a firm glance over his shoulder. “Come on, Em. No time to dilly-dally.” His voice gentles as he adds, “You can do this. I know you can.”
“Yes, I can,” I shoot back, suddenly irritated by his assumption that I’m a lily-livered coward. (Even though I’m still feeling plenty lily-livered at the thought of meeting his family mere hours after shots of me humping his leg hit the internet.) “But I can’t do it without shoes.”
He glances down at the box under his arm, then back at me with a grin. “Oh, right. Sorry about that, Darling.”
“Not a problem, Featherswallow,” I say, lips twitching despite myself as I take the box he sheepishly hands over. “Your name really is ridiculous. No offense.”
“None taken,” he says. “According to the family lore, it originated in the eleventh century, with an ancestor who rather unfortunately resembled a bird.”
I squint up at him as I perch on the bed to pull on my new pumps. “Yes…I think I see it now. A bit of pigeon around the eyes…”
He smiles, one of his wicked grins, the one that first imperiled my panties last night at the bar. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Darling. This relationship is fake. I will not be tempted back into your bed, no matter how many compliments you hurl at my feet. Or my pigeon eyes.”
Fighting a laugh, I nod. “Understood. I’ll try to control myself in the future.”
And I will.
But I’m not naïve enough to think it will be easy.
We’re less than two minutes into this, and I’m already having a hard time suppressing a fresh tingle as my fake boyfriend tucks my arm through his and aims us toward the hotel lobby.
Chapter Nine
OLIVER
Ithrive on a sense of urgency, but this is really cutting things close…
Seventeen minutes. That’s all we have to find Emily a dress suitable for meeting the crème de la crème of London society, then dash over to Spencer House before the salad course is served.
But at least there’s no overzealous member of the sales staff hovering about, slowing our progress.
Once I explained the situation, the shop assistant—a severe-looking woman who introduced herself as Claudette—deposited us in the largest fitting room with an armful of options before discreetly withdrawing, seeming to recognize that panic purchases require focus and privacy. Or perhaps she recognized us from the gossip sites and assumed we might want to be alone for other reasons.
Either way, her absence is a blessing given the delicate nature of the things we need to discuss.
“How’s the first one coming along?” I call through the velvet curtain.
“It’s doing weird things to my chest,” Emily calls back.
“Well, Christ, can’t have that. That’s my job,” I joke without thinking, then catch myself.
Fake relationship, Featherswallow.