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)
“Featherswallow Heir Saves Choking American” is the kindest headline.
The others focus on how repulsive I look—feet dangling, face red, arms flailing as I convulse mid-retch.
But the worst one, the one that makes me groan aloud, is a shot of the exact moment the ring flew out of my mouth. My eyes are bulging, my mouth is open in an O of surprise, and Oliver’s arms are so tight around me, my breasts seem to be attempting to launch themselves out onto the table, as well.
The caption reads: “Proposal or attempted murder? Featherswallow has some explaining to do…”
“Oh no, Olly,” I moan, as I turn the screen to face him.
Oliver takes one look at the photo and bursts out laughing. Not a polite chuckle, either, but a full-bodied guffaw that makes his eyes crinkle at the edges.
“It’s not funny!” I protest, but his laughter is infectious. “They’re accusing you of attempted murder! And I look like a hideous green sausage monster.”
“You look like a gorgeous woman who’s still alive after being rudely attacked by holiday pudding,” he corrects, still grinning. “The rest is just noise, though I’m afraid our plan to be boring isn’t off to the best start.”
“You think?” I ask dryly, as I scroll through more headlines. “Here’s a great one—American spits on British Tradition. They make it sound like I did it on purpose.” I shift my narrowed gaze to his. “When really it was all your fault.”
His eyes go wide as he presses a hand to his chest. “Me? How so?”
“You put your hand on my thigh,” I say, remembering how it all started now. “You fondled me under the table, which made me pull in a breath, which made me suck a Christmas pudding toy into my throat!”
His lips twist, but he has the grace to look apologetic as he says, “Well, now, Emily, I was simply performing the part of the besotted boyfriend as promised. You can hardly blame me for that.”
“Can’t I?” I ask, arching a brow.
But I’m not about to tell him to keep his hands to himself from now on. A part of me likes the thought of his hands on me far too much.
Which is a problem. Nearly as much of a problem as the way my chest went tight during Edward’s speech, highlighting his brother’s fantastic heart.
It does seem to be fantastic, but it isn’t mine, and it never will be.
As wonderful as Olly is, we would never last. We’re from two different worlds, and I can’t handle this level of scrutiny from the press. It’s already making me twitchy, and we’re less than twenty-four hours into this mess.
So, I force myself to take a step back and banish the flirtation from my tone as I ask, “So, where to next? I need a quiet place to call my Fletchers’ rep and explain myself.” I sigh. “Or attempt to explain myself. What do you think? Do fresh pictures and rumors that you tried to kill me with pudding make things less scandalous or more scandalous?”
“Less scandalous, for sure,” Oliver says with an unconcerned scoff. “You were at a luncheon with my mother when the attempted murder went down. That’s the opposite of scandalous. And there are just as many headlines claiming I was trying to propose as there are accusing me of plotting your demise. Your contact will be confused by the warring reports and desperate for the real story. You’ll give him the scoop, he’ll feel important, and you’ll be in the clear.”
He takes my arm, threading it through his as he starts down the sidewalk. “Then, we’ll spend the rest of the evening safely tucked away in my apartment, eating curry takeout and prepping you to shine at your meeting with Belinda on Thursday.”
I smile up at him. “Sounds like a great night.”
“To my place, then?” he asks. “And I’ll have a courier fetch your things from the hotel?”
I nod. “To your place.”
Curry, takeout, and a night at Oliver’s flat.
Totally innocent. Utterly safe.
Except for the tiny, inconvenient fact that I’m catching feelings for my fake boyfriend…
Chapter Eleven
OLVER
Two days later…
It happens every year.
I get caught up in the holiday spirit, excited about hot chocolate in the great outdoors, and forget that I’m a horror show on skates and the Somerset House ice rink is a battleground where I’ve been vanquished time and again.
It sure is festive, though…
The courtyard-turned-ice-rink teems with families, couples, and gangs of ruddy-cheeked kids, all gliding about like they were born with blades strapped to their feet. Giant Christmas trees ring the space, twinkling lights stretch overhead, and “Winter Wonderland” blares from speakers big enough to power the raves I used to sneak into as a pre-teen.
But this isn’t a rave or a pub or any other place where my serviceable dance moves might spare me shame and ridicule.