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)
And if my mother and grandmother join forces to push this agenda?
Well, I might be disowned if I fail to seal the deal.
“What do you think? I thought it was perfect, but…” Emily cocks her head, a frown line forming between her brows. “I liked that the green complemented your tie, but…maybe it’s too much?”
I still can’t speak.
My brain appears to have short-circuited somewhere between realizing just how beautiful she is and how dangerous she is.
Maybe this isn’t such a brilliant plan, after all…
I’m seriously in for a world of pain if my nearest and dearest form an attachment, and then I appear to have let this lovely girl slip through my fingers. Unlike many noble families, they won’t care that she’s American. They’ll just care that she made me feel free to be my truest self, and that I didn’t appear to treasure that as much as I should have.
I’ll have to take the blame for the end of the relationship, after all, it’s the only way to protect Em from further cyber harassment.
Yes, mistakes may have been made, but…it’s too late to turn back now.
Forcing a smile, I shake my head. “No, it’s not too much. It’s perfect.” Our gazes lock, hold. “You’re perfect, and we should be on our way.”
Like a retail specter eerily attuned to her customers’ vibrations, Claudette suddenly materializes beside me. “Yes, that’s the dress. It’s incredible on you,” she announces, with a definitive nod. “The color is divine, and the cut couldn’t be more flattering.”
“Agreed, we’ll take it,” I say, still having a hard time pulling my gaze from Emily’s. “But as we mentioned, we’re in quite a rush.”
“Of course! Let me just snip the tags, and you’ll be ready to go.” Claudette flutters around Emily, wielding a pair of tiny scissors, before bustling out with practiced efficiency. As she goes, she calls over her shoulder, “I’ll meet you at the register.”
And yes, I do stand there gaping at Emily for nearly another full minute before pulling myself together.
So far, this fake boyfriend nonsense is off to one hell of a start.
“Right, then, do you want to gather your things, and I’ll meet you up front?” I ask as I back away. “I’m sure Claudette will give you a bag for your other clothes. This is my treat, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Emily says, “but I’m happy to pay you back for—”
“Stop,” I cut her off. “What kind of fake boyfriend would I be if I didn’t buy my fake girlfriend a proper ‘meet the parent’ dress? Speaking of, I should fill you in on the things that irritate Mother. There are only three cardinal sins in the World of Vivian, the Dowager Viscountess, but commit any of them, and she’ll be cranky.”
Emily gulps, her eyes going wide. “Shit, Olly, you should have led with that! Now I’m going to be a nervous wreck.”
“Never, you’re gorgeous,” I assure her. “And we’ll have a full five minutes to prepare in the cab.”
“Five minutes!” she squeaks.
“Don’t worry! You’ll be great!” I duck out of the fitting room, congratulating myself on maintaining my composure and keeping my hands to myself.
But how long will I be able to keep up the farce?
I have no idea.
I only know that I’m looking forward to an excuse to perform “pretend affection” for Emily before an audience of my family, friends, and peers far too much….
Chapter Ten
EMILY
I’ve forgotten how to breathe, and it has nothing to do with the shapewear beneath my dress.
Okay, maybe it has a little bit to do with the shapewear, but I’m not about to complain. Claudette was a genius who picked out the perfect thigh minimizer and waist-cinching bustier.
No, it has much more to do with this “meet the parents at first sight” thing Olly somehow talked me into. Meeting someone’s mother is terrifying enough when your boyfriend is from a normal family and you’ve had time to prepare. But meeting a Dowager Viscountess? Moments before a very important ceremony honoring her eldest child, the Viscount?
Without time to do anything to my hair except coil it into a low bun with tendrils in the dressing room and hope for the best?
Well, needless to say, I’m spiraling.
And gasping.
Maybe even hyperventilating?
“Deep breath,” Oliver murmurs as we hurry up the stone steps of Spencer House, past topiary trees wrapped in white lights that twinkle like champagne bubbles. “You’ve got this.”
The December wind smells like it might snow again soon, and somewhere nearby, carol singers are working their way through “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” London at Christmas is aggressively festive, even at midday. Normally, I’d be enchanted, but right now, all I can think about are the three rules Oliver drilled into me during our four-minute cab ride.
Rule number one: Don’t talk with your mouth full.
I mean, it sounds easy. I’m pretty sure I mastered that particular aspect of table manners around ten, when my mother threatened to make me eat dinner in the trash can with the raccoons if I didn’t stop spraying breadcrumbs at dinner. But knowing my luck since I landed in London, I’ll probably forget Rule One and give our table a “see food” exhibit during the salad course.