Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
I’ve never had a thing for cocky men, and I’ve met plenty in the course of my job. City jerks and arrogant finance bros dressed in designer suits and expensive watches, their confidence elevated by obscene bonuses and ridiculous job titles. And sometimes illegal party favors.
Fin DeWitt is the king of their type—the supreme cock of the walk. And he knows how to push my buttons. It makes not one iota of sense that I kind of like that about him.
I’ve known rich people. I’ve run their events. I’ve often thought how nice it must be to view the world from such a lofty perch, because with money and material possessions comes security. A sense of belonging. I suppose I envy their soft-cushioned upbringings.
It’s not like I wasn’t loved as a child. But security was scarce, from food to safety. Not that I could’ve articulated the things that worried me at the time.
I feel like rich people can get away with murder. But someone like Fin, rich and good looking and so charismatic—he could probably make a ritual sacrifice on the steps of Parliament and walk off, unaccosted.
“I don’t think it’s redundant,” I answer eventually. “Just because we appear to be married doesn’t give you rights over my body.”
“Of course not. Even if you were singing a different tune last night.”
“I’m not responsible for last night,” I retort quickly.
“And boy did you sing loud and proud.”
I narrow my eyes but say nothing as we begin a stare-off. I feel a surge of triumph as his gaze dips first.
“I tell you what,” he says, hooking his thumb into the towel. “How about I even things up.”
“No!” I whip around just in time . . . just in time to take a mental snapshot. As I stare at the clothes hanging from the rails, my heart flip-flops like a landed fish as I try to process the sight of those long, muscular thighs. And the hollows of his pelvis that my tongue appears to have sensory knowledge of. I also now know for sure why I’m a contender for the funny-walk-of-the-year prize.
“Are you always this annoying?” I lift my gaze to the ceiling. This is so disconcerting. I might not remember everything about last night, but it’s freaking me out how my body seems to recognize his. How the phantom of his touch seems to be tattooed all over my skin.
I hear the soft slide of a drawer.
“Sometimes I’m worse.”
“I should’ve asked for more money.”
“He would’ve given it to you.”
“Why did you talk him up? Why did you help me?”
“It seemed important to you to get back to London. I guess I wanted you to be fairly compensated in the face of that.”
“That?”
“Your worries or concerns. Besides, Oliver would do anything for Evie. He’d find a way to give her the moon if she asked for it. Or give you a quarter of a million to make her smile.”
Did that sound a little wistful?
“Well, thank you,” I reply, still staring at the ceiling. “He does seem to be very in love. They both do.”
“What they have is rare.”
That was definitely wistful. But I’m not ready to talk love with the man I may or may not be actually married to. Especially when the sounds of his rustling clothing seem to have made my nipples hard.
Think, Mila. Think of something, anything, other than him.
The stairwell to get to my grandmother’s home. The pervasive stench of other people’s cooking—baked in grease and cabbage and things even less pleasant. The raptor-eyed sociopath who lives on the same floor. The looming date of the housing association’s repossession.
Poverty. That’ll do it every time. There is nothing sexy about poverty.
My mind drifts back to the question of my fee. Crossing my fingers, I send a silent plea to the universe. Help me out, please.
“Why do you suppose my clothes are hanging up in here?”
“Because this is where Oliver and Evie were supposed to stay,” he replies. “Best suite in the house.”
This is not happening. There must be an alternative.
Unless the alternative is a plane back home after being found out.
“Do you think I’ve made a mess of things?” I’m not sure he’ll hear and I’m not really sure I want to know as I quietly address the meager row of my clothes.
“In what way?”
“After what’s happened. Do you think Oliver will refuse to pay me?” I hate how vulnerable I sound.
“I know he seems like an asshole, but you held up your part of the bargain. He’ll honor his.”
I cross my fingers. So much for not being suspicious. “Are you decent yet?” I ask, tired of talking to my resort wardrobe.
“I guess that depends on who you ask.”
Fin DeWitt is nothing if not committed.
Inhaling a deep breath, I turn to face him. I’m relieved (mostly) to find he’s at least wearing shorts, a shirt gripped in his hand. That body is such a temptation for a wandering eye, which is why I keep my gaze resolutely on his.