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)
Which was hurtful, but still a relatively peaceful way to end a love affair.
As peaceful as the way we fell for each other…
So, maybe you’re ready for something less peaceful, woman! Maybe it’s time love threw you into the back of an unmarked van, drove you out into the middle of bumfuck Swoonville, and dumped your body in a boiling hot spring of emotions, with no time to ease into your feels—or a commitment—at a leisurely pace.
“Stop. Please, stop,” I beg the Inner Voice.
I can’t let myself be kidnapped by a love van right now, not with so much on the line. Even if I land the Fletchers’ gig, Darling Events isn’t out of the woods. If Maya can’t land this big fish, we’ll need to book at least five major events this year to make up for the drop in revenue from losing Titan.
And that’s just this year.
Come next year, we’ll have to do it all again, to keep going big or go home.
And I know myself. I can’t grow a business from low six figures to mid six figures while juggling a long-distance relationship. Olly and I are just five days into this…whatever it is, and I was already missing him like crazy this afternoon. I couldn’t wait for him to get back from running errands for reasons that had nothing to do with our West End matinee plans and everything to do with the way Oliver’s blue-gray eyes light up when he sees me coming.
And that was after just four hours apart!
After two weeks, two months, I’d be a wreck. A pining, sad, moping, low-functioning wreck, incapable of holding up my side of the business. Even if Darling Events were solely mine, I wouldn’t want that to happen. But it’s not, it’s Maya’s, too. She’s depending on me. She’s been my friend since we were in junior high, and helping to grow Darling Events into a power player in the party planning scene for almost four years.
I can’t let her down.
Not even for a man who might actually be my perfect match if he didn’t live half a world away…
“Okay, I’m back!” Maya breathes into the phone, making me flinch and start pacing again. “What’s up, buttercup?”
I’ve been dressed for Oliver’s Grandmother’s party for a while now, but left my heels by the door—the better to comfortably wear a hole in the carpet while having an emotional meltdown.
“I’m freaking out, that’s what’s up,” I whisper-hiss into the receiver, glancing at the clock on the nightstand.
Eighteen minutes until we need to leave.
Eighteen minutes to get my head on straight before I have to pretend to be Oliver’s girlfriend in front of his entire family, his grandmother’s friends, high-profile society mavens, a Duchess, and an Earl who might be stopping by for Christmas pudding.
No pressure or anything.
“I’m starting to think this was a bad idea,” I whisper. “Maybe even a really bad idea.”
“What? Why? And why are you whispering?” Maya’s voice crackles through my single earbud. I left the other one out, the better to hear the stupidly hot man singing in a husky baritone in the shower down the hall. “And why are you freaking out? You calmed the waters at Fletchers, have two incredible caterers on board for them to choose from, and are well on your way to being besties with Belinda Moore. As far as I can tell, everything is coming up roses, baby. White roses with little sprigs of fir tree tucked around them for the holidays.”
“Yes, but I’ve also made four appearances in the British tabloids in five days,” I remind her. “The paparazzi doesn’t seem to be losing interest. They sneak shots of us every time we leave Oliver’s apartment.”
“But you look adorable in most of them, especially the carousel shots from yesterday,” she counters. “And so happy! I haven’t seen you smile like that since we ditched school to go to Coney Island senior year. It looks like you’re having the time of your life being a pretend girlfriend.”
“I am, and that’s the problem!” I agree with a flop of my arm.
“Why?”
“I’m not supposed to be having fun! The fun is supposed to be fake. Just like the kisses and the laughter and the…other things. And Oliver is supposed to be a stuck-up snob who lied to me at a pub, not silly and sweet and hot and…perfect.”
I pause at the window, staring at my reflection in the darkened glass.
The green dress Oliver bought me for the luncheon looks even more elegant and festive paired with dangly pearl earrings we picked up at a Christmas market stall. My hair is cooperating for once, falling in smooth curls around my shoulders, and I nailed the smudged gray eyeliner look all the cool South Korean girls are doing. I look like someone who belongs at a fancy Christmas party with a member of the aristocracy.