Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
She’s here. In London. Somewhere.
It’s just a question of finding her.
Hope is a fire that burns bright.
“Excuse me, sir.”
I tilt my head to find one of London’s finest—the transport police version—towering over me. “Do you realize fare evasion is a criminal offense?”
I break into a smile. “Fucking worth it, though.”
Chapter 13
Matt
“Here he is—Prince Charming!” Wearing a grin of shit-eating proportions, Fin raises his glass in toast as I cross the floor of Oliver’s almost-empty club.
Oliver’s club isn’t a nightclub or a sports club. It’s the kind of place I never thought I’d see the inside of. Heavy furniture and leather chairs built to last but not necessarily for comfort. Poor lighting and antique paneled walls, the timber dappled with sword marks. Allegedly. And my least favorite aspect, ugly portraits of long-dead white men staring disapprovingly down.
Ah, they’d be turning in their graves to know they let Irishmen—and women—in these days.
The club is a private members’ establishment, formerly known as a gentleman’s club, renamed so as not to be confused with the kind of place with poles, stages, and scantily clad women.
“I think you’ve got that the wrong way around.” Reaching my so-called friends, I pull out one of the ugly leather chairs around a small table. “You’re the one with the hair and the charm, pretty boy.” I give my head a theatrical shake, a bit like a Thoroughbred Iberian. Or a social media influencer in front of a camera.
“But you’re the one with the silky sash and shiny buttons.” Fin makes feckin’ spirit fingers over his chest, vicious delight in those sparkling blue eyes of his. “Or so I’ve heard. Wear it for me sometime, baby?”
I make a noise of disgust as I wonder what else he’s heard, the least of which would be that I dumped his wife with a kid she barely knows. Thankfully, the pair of them seemed to be getting along like a house on fire when I got back to the theater just before curtain-up. I had hung back before taking my seat, waiting for the lights to dim to hide the fact that I was mildly disheveled, sweaty haired, and red in the face. Mila would’ve probably assumed I’d been up to no good. Worse, she might’ve insisted on answers.
As it was, I spent the first half of the show with my brain reeling between plans to find Ryan and excuses to provide Mila with because telling Fin and, to a lesser extent, Oliver seemed like a fate worse than death. But Mila was far too polite to ask and, during the intermission, merely murmured a quiet “I hope you caught up with your friend.” She didn’t wait for an answer, turning to speak with one of the kids from her youth group instead. She’s one of the good ones, Mila.
Good that Evie wasn’t there, is all I can say. She’s also a good woman, but it definitely wouldn’t have gone the same way.
As for Clodagh, she’s yet to mention my excursion to her mother, mainly because she was so enamored with the show, and yapped about it all the way home. The only other thing we talked about was getting her a cookie jar. Apparently, a jam jar won’t be big enough to store all my sweary transgressions.
“I knew about the romance novels,” Fin taunts. “But I didn’t know you were into fairy tales.”
Jaysus, you make one reference to Bridgerton, and you’re forever labeled. So I cracked the spines on one or two of Letty’s novels. So what? I know I’m not the only one.
“I hear romance books are more your line,” I retort with a careless gesture.
“I already have an abundance of romance in my life.”
I scoff, mildly pissed off. “It’s like you don’t even remember you snagged Mila by accident. Personally, I’m still not convinced she isn’t suffering from Stockholm syndrome, given the beginning of your relationship. An isolated island, no one to turn to but you. Sounds more like the beginnings of a true crime podcast than a romance.”
“What wrongs have I committed to deserve spending my Saturday evening with you two?” Oliver’s tone is withering as he reaches for his wineglass.
My attention pivots. “How long have you got?”
“The time it would take to list them would turn your wine to vinegar,” Fin adds.
“My conscience is as clear as the driven snow.” Oliver gives a haughty sniff.
“I wasn’t aware you had a conscience,” I say.
“Sure he has. It’s a recent addition to the stiff-upper-lipped, stick-up-the-ass Brit model. A conscience called Evie.” Fin’s attention glides my way again. “But back to you. What’s this I hear about you haring around London after a woman?”
“I don’t know. What is it you hear?”
“Enough to pique my interest.” He glances down, lowering his lashes like a coy debutante.
“That might work on Mila, but it’s not working on me.”