Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“At this rate, I won’t own it for long. Do you know he was found in the kitchens again yesterday? I’m told he devoured a tray of Wagyu steaks—”
“Ouch.” I’ve seen those on the menu at two hundred a pop.
“He also made short work of a whole Hereford rib eye before he was apprehended.”
“That must’ve happened when I was at the spa.” I thought he looked all lip-licking satisfied when I got back.
Oliver makes an interested noise in his throat. “What I’m hearing is it’s not so terrible living with me.”
“There are perks,” I agree reluctantly. “Though I guess you could snore less.” Wandering to my open bedroom door, I prop my shoulder to the frame and stare over the no-man’s-land of the living room toward the matte-black double doors to Oliver’s bedroom. We’re like opposing teams or enemies. Except for the fact that, after fourteen days of watching (and annoying) him, I sometimes think I would crawl naked to his bed if he asked me to. Not that he’s going to. I stipulated a no-sex arrangement, and those are the vibes I’ve been giving out. Even if it sometimes feels like self-sabotage. I have never wanted to screw someone so badly.
“No one else has ever complained before.” His implication pokes at my sternum like a sharp pin—other women. “I could stop breathing altogether, I suppose.”
“Let’s not rule it out,” I mutter, pushing away from the doorframe.
“Don’t you want to do it yourself?”
“Like, strangle you?”
“You could wrap your hands around my throat while you—”
“Nah. I’d just pick up the appropriate drugs from the dispensary?”
When he shoots those shots, I bat them away. It wouldn’t do to admit I still find him hot.
Lines might be crossed.
Rules might be broken.
And I’d most certainly be screwed—in more than one way.
Oliver is nothing if not imaginative.
“Meanwhile, perhaps you could make your way down to dinner. That wasn’t a suggestion, by the way.”
“Oh, a demand? Yes, sir, Mr. Deubel, sir. Right away! Oh, wait. You’re not the boss of me.”
“Eve.” He makes a warning of my name. It feels like a brush of delicious punishment. Ohhh, do it again, Olly. I kind of like it. “Sometimes I wonder if you truly want to stay in London.”
His meaning is like a coconut to the head—as in, not at all subtle. It’s a reminder of what’s at stake.
Yet I refuse to give him an inch. “Can I bring Bo?”
“Not unless you want the kitchen closed down by the health department.” He sighs heavily, and I press my hand to my rib cage to stem a strange pang. Is he about to terminate our agreement? “I have guests waiting.” His answer is oddly hesitant.
“Guests?” My heart lifts, like a balloon with cut strings. “Who?”
“My business partners. My friends.”
The balloon deflates, farting its way to the floor as I immediately understand what this is. He’s just building on the foundation stone of his deception.
Which is exactly what you signed up for, stupid.
“Sounds nice.” I try not to sound lukewarm as I glance down. “I’m in sweats.” Cute, cashmere sweats, thanks to my new capsule wardrobe, as curated by a stylist at Selfridges. Mitchell is still holding my belongings hostage, and hell will freeze over before I’ll be manipulated by him. I don’t often spend money on myself. I like clothes and try to buy things that will last over fast fashion. I’m also a fan of thrifting.
“Sweats?”
“Yes, lazy wear. And I haven’t washed my hair.”
“It doesn’t matter, and sweats are fine.”
“Only a man would say such a thing. Besides, your restaurant has a dress code.”
“The nice thing about owning places, as you pointed out, is I get to make the rules.”
“I’m not turning up in sweats while you and your friends sit there looking like you just stepped out of a GQ menswear feature, probably captioned ‘Hot Bros: Summer in the City.’”
“Like we what?” His answer is tremulous with laughter.
“Suit porn, Oliver. It’s a thing.” An annoying thing that makes me think very hot and naughty things. “Give me ten minutes.”
“It’s not a parade, Eve.”
“Oh, honey, how are you going to fool people into believing you have a fiancée when you talk like you’ve never even met a woman?”
“Fine,” he utters resignedly. “Just try not to be too long.”
“As sure as fiber forces flatulence from Mr. Bojangles’s bowels, I’ll be there within ten minutes.”
He harrumphs again, and just as I imagine he’s about to hang up, I add, “Oliver?”
“Yes?”
“I got there first!” I say as I gleefully hang up on him.
Chapter 19
OLIVER
“See, I told you he could wheel and deal while taking a leak.”
I look up from my phone, annoyed to find my mind still on Eve, but more annoyed to find Fin wearing that shit-eating grin of his. “It’s called multitasking,” I retort, pulling out the chair opposite him. “You should try it sometime.”