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)
No, this is the ice rink, a place where I have always done the opposite of shine.
What is the opposite of shine?
“Dull” doesn’t make much sense…
Wither isn’t quite right either.
Spasm and flop, while accurate, aren’t logical antonyms.
I lean against the barrier, continuing to ponder the issue as a toddler in a puffy pink coat streaks by—backwards—while her father films. The little rascal can’t be more than three.
This is going to be humiliating.
I suppose I could text Emily and arrange to meet for a hot toddy at the pub near my place, instead. But when I told her where we were headed last night, she seemed so excited about skating. Turns out her sister is an Olympic figure skater, and some of her best Christmas memories involve strapping on their “granny skates” and taking to the frozen pond by their grandparents’ house in Maine.
The way her eyes lit up as she talked about the thermoses of hot chocolate they’d hang around their necks and the portable karaoke machine they’d drag out onto the ice to sing Christmas carols made me wish I’d been there.
“Maybe American Christmas isn’t total rubbish,” I’d said last night, feeling the opposite of “rubbish” after another fantastic day with my fake girlfriend.
We had a blast at the British Museum, nerding out over the mummies, before lingering at a two-hour lunch while Em snuck in some work on her laptop. We finished with a stroll through the park before heading back to mine for leftover curry and a movie.
We watched Bridget Jones’s Diary in our pajamas, and I’m not ashamed to say I loved every bloody minute of it.
I’d seen it ages ago, of course, but I’d forgotten what a good holiday flick it is. We laughed, cursed Hugh Grant’s character for being a scoundrel, laughed some more, and then Emily teared up at the end, while Bridget was running through London in her knickers, trying to find Mark Darcy before it was too late.
Fine! Maybe I teared up a little, too.
But then, it’s a special thing…to be loved for exactly who you are.
Especially when you’re a bit of an acquired taste.
I’m good at hiding my stranger tendencies from the world at large, but my crooked sense of humor, impatience for small talk, and random attacks of bluntness and foolishness give me away as an odd duck in the end. Most of the women I’ve dated would have happily marched me down the aisle—I’m a wealthy member of the peerage, whose ancestors had the sense not to marry a cousin too terribly often—but every last one of them expressed a wish for me to be “more serious” at one point or another.
They preferred the cool, aloof Oliver they’d known before they’d seen behind the mask.
But Emily seems to like impulsive, occasionally goofy “Olly” just fine.
By the end of the evening last night, she was snuggled up against me, her fluffy-sock-covered toes tucked under my thigh to stay warm, while we chatted our way through Elf, laughing at all the same places. Then, she fell asleep on my shoulder, muttering insane things in her sleep that made me laugh some more, and I sat there for far too long, wondering if love at first sight might be a thing, after all.
Though it isn’t at first sight, obviously.
I’ve already seen her several times, including naked and writhing on my cock.
Which I’m not going to think about. I’m determined to show Emily I can abide by our “faking it” rules. I have to. I was the one who broke the initial trust. I lied about who I was and, in the process, exposed her to a level of internet bullying no human should have to endure.
Not to mention putting her livelihood at risk.
No, if we’re ever going to find our way back to the bedroom, Emily has to be the one to decide it’s time to change the rules.
But I can do my best to prove to her that I’d be a fantastic boyfriend, starting with taking her skating at the most festive rink in London.
No matter how much I’m dreading the bone-splintering impact when my ass hits the ice again and again…
“Oliver, there you are!”
I turn to see Emily bouncing through the crowd milling about the rink, her cheeks pink and a big grin on her face.
She’s wearing that red coat that makes her look like a holiday elf, a thick white scarf, and matching mittens, proving she’s ready to take this skate session seriously.
“How did the meeting go?” I laugh as she launches herself into my arms. “That good, eh?” I grin, taking advantage of the excuse to give her a proper squeeze before setting her back on her feet.
“So good!” she says, her breath rushing out with an excited flap of her hands.
“Come on, you have to give me more than that,” I insist. “I’ve been waiting on pins and needles.” I shoot my watch a mock glare. “You are a full twenty-five minutes late.”