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 you’re Bridget in a naughty little skirt,” he says, his lips pushing into a pout as he glances at my lower half. “Are you sure you won’t let me buy you a naughty little skirt on the way? I’m sure something’s still open.” He motions toward me. “I mean, you’re gorgeous, but far too classy for the insanity to which you shall soon be subjected. I’m afraid someone will spill beer on you, and I’ll never forgive myself for letting you ruin that perfect dress.”
I arch a dubious brow, ignoring the way my cheeks heat at the “gorgeous” part of that statement. “I seriously doubt someone’s going to spill beer on me, Olly. It’s a holiday party at a Dowager Viscountess’s mansion, not a kegger at a frat house.”
He grunts. “You’re right, it’s more likely to be Christmas punch than beer. But I’d still feel better if you were wearing a hard-to-stain little black dress.” His voice becomes a wicked purr as he adds, “A very little black dress.”
“There he is,” I murmur, close to purring myself. “There’s the bad man I met at the pub. I wondered where he’d gotten off to.”
“He’s been being a good fake boyfriend,” Oliver murmurs, lifting a hand into the air. “And I solemnly swear, he’ll still be a good fake boyfriend tonight. No matter how sexy you look with your smudgy eye makeup and berry-stained lips. Shall we?”
But maybe I don’t want you to be good, Olly, I think as I step into my heels and take his offered arm.
Aloud, I say, “We shall.”
But all the way down the elevator to the ground floor, all I can think about is how naughty Olly and I were in an elevator the last time we had a few beers.
And how much I want to be naughty with him again…
Chapter Thirteen
OLIVER
The thing about lying to my grandmother is that she always knows.
Everything.
Always.
All the time.
She is a mystical, all-seeing elf of a woman, who is also twice as plugged into social media as people half her age. The chances she’ll guess that I’m trying to pull the wool over her eyes are significant.
But then, the fact that I’m genuinely mad about Emily and pretending not to be when we’re alone is significant, too.
Hopefully, the two lies will cancel each other out, leaving everyone satisfied.
Or confused.
I’m certainly confused.
It makes sense that my stomach is in knots as Emily and I emerge from our cab and take the turn into Grandmother’s front garden, where twinkling lights dance through the trees above the recently shoveled path.
“Shit, I forgot to ask—is there anything special I should know about British holiday party etiquette?” Emily asks, fingers digging into my arm through my coat, making me think she’s feeling the stress, too. “I mean, obviously, she’s Lady Plimpton until I’m told otherwise. And I won’t hug her or compliment her outfit or do anything else repulsively American.”
I laugh. “No one said hugging and complimenting were repulsive. They just make us uncomfortable.” I shrug. “Until we’re sauced, of course, then anything goes. Who knows, you might end up playing strip snooker with Grandmother before the evening is through.”
She shiver-giggles. “Don’t joke. I’m too nervous.”
I pause halfway up the walk, turning to give her shoulders an encouraging squeeze. “Relax, you’ll do fine. Better than fine. You’re delightful at a party.”
“How would you know?” she asks. “We’ve never been to a party together.”
“But we’ve been to the pub, which is close,” I say. “You’ve already proven you can hold your liquor and cut a serious rug on the dancefloor. And you’re delightful all of the time. I don’t see why you’d be any different at a party.”
“I’m not delightful all the time,” she says in a softer voice, her brow furrowing. “Remember the morning I yelled at you and said terrible things?”
“You didn’t yell,” I murmur. She hasn’t brought up the morning after since… Well, since the morning after. The fact that she wants to talk about it now seems like a good sign. It’s certainly an opportunity I don’t intend to let slip through my fingers. “You spoke in a firm, but reasonable tone. And they weren’t terrible things; they were true things. I did lie to you, but I don’t plan on ever being that stupid again.”
“You’re not stupid. You’re…” She trails off with a sigh that sends an increasingly familiar wave of longing rushing through my chest. “You’re wonderful, and I’m having so much fun I—”
Before she can finish, the front door flies open and my grandmother cheers, “Happy Christmas! Oliver, darling, you’re finally here! I thought I heard someone lurking in the garden!”
I turn to assure her that I wasn’t lurking—just pausing for a chat that might have put me out of my “fake relationship” misery, if we hadn’t been so festively interrupted—only to be drowned out by feverish barking.