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)
“It is,” I mumble as I stress chew my bottom lip. “You’re right.”
“But it could also end in more pictures like at the carousel and the ice-skating rink,” she adds in a softer voice. “In smiles and kisses and fun and two people being very happy together.”
I release my lip and swallow. Hard. “Yeah. It could, I think. It really could.”
“So, get out there and tell your fake boyfriend you don’t want to fake it anymore,” she says. “I’ve got to go. The grind calls. Talk soon. You’ve got this, Em. I know you do.”
“Thanks,” I whisper as we end the call.
After, I sit staring at my reflection again as my thoughts race. Then, I launch into list-making mode.
Because of course, I do.
Reasons Why Telling Olly
I Want to be his Real Girlfriend
is Still a Bad Idea
1. We still live on different continents (3,458 miles apart, give or take a mile, and who knows how far in kilometers).
2. He’s from a noble family, has an obscene amount of money, a successful career, looks effortlessly chic in designer duds, and once dated a supermodel.
3. I’m from New Jersey, from a family that couldn’t afford a beach club membership, have exactly four thousand, three hundred, and six dollars in my checking account, my business is in major struggle mode, and I look effortlessly uninspiring in off-the-rack suits, even my mother has hinted are too modest. I think in miles and pounds and inches and will likely never successfully measure anything outside the United States. And cooking in Celsius? Forget about it. I’ve already nearly set his flat on fire trying to broil cheese on my toast at the wrong degree.
4. I hate having my picture taken, even when I know it’s being taken, let alone a picture sneak attack. This paparazzi thing is already getting seriously old. Is that the kind of thing I could get used to dealing with for months? Years? Maybe even longer?
5. I still don’t understand how serious this “fifth in line to the throne” thing is. I mean, I get that the chances of him becoming king are slim to none, but they aren’t zero. And that means—should this really be my shot at happily ever after—there would also be a non-zero chance of me becoming…
“The Queen of Fucking England,” I mutter aloud with a very undignified, unqueenly snort.
Yeah. That’s never going to happen. Never.
I’m pretty sure someone would assassinate me first. Half the people in the U.K. don’t like the monarchy much already, let alone if there was suddenly a lower-middle-class American from a crusty part of New Jersey on the throne.
Of course, it’s much more likely that we’ll never make it that far, that Olly will realize he’s made a horrible mistake getting involved with a hot mess American and move on.
Even if the tabloids do seem to think that his mess and mine are a match made in heaven…
A soft knock interrupts my stress spiral.
“Ready to go, darling Darling? Time, tide, and my grandmother tolerate tardiness from no man. Or woman.” Oliver’s voice rumbles through the door, instantly making my thighs tingle.
I’m not sure if this is just a crush or something more serious, but it’s certainly lust.
I’m already dying to see him in whatever sexy suit he’s wearing tonight.
“Yes, just a second,” I say as I stand. “Come in, I just need to put on my heels, and I’ll be—” I cut off with another unladylike snort that becomes a full-throated chortle as Oliver steps into the room, doing a slow spin, the better for me to take in the full glory of his outfit. “Oh my God, Featherswallow. What in the Father Christmas is that?”
“This is the bet I lost with my grandmother at last year’s party,” he says. “We’d both been drinking. But I was certain she was the more inebriated party, and I would handily beat her at snooker. But alas…” He glances down at the most hideously festive Christmas sweater I’ve ever seen in my life.
And I grew up in New Jersey, so I’ve seen some shit when it comes to tacky.
But this…
It’s aggressively red, like blood from a fresh, neon wound, with a massive gingerbread man across the chest. A gingerbread man who’s clearly going through something, judging by the googly eyes pointing in two wildly different directions.
“Did it have a stroke?” I ask, barely suppressing another laugh as he flicks the bells forming a belt across the man’s middle.
“Almost certainly,” he says. “And I’m pretty sure its icing is infected with something. But it lights up and glows in the dark, so…there’s that.”
He presses a button beneath his armpit, and the gingerbread’s icing begins to throb bright green, sending me into another fit of giggles. “Oh my God,” I gasp. “This is worse than the reindeer sweater in Bridget Jones. You’re totally Mark Darcy.”