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)
Me: I might just have something for you.
Ronny: That news is so hype! Can I call round?
Me: Not yet. I’m still in Indonesia.
Ronny: Flexing! I like.
Me: Not so much. I’m here for work, remember?
At that very moment, my work project walks into the living room in a pair of thin cotton shorts. Hello, thundercock . . .
“Did you only pack one T-shirt?” I ask pertly.
“Sorry?” He glances down at his chest. To be fair, so do I.
“You had a T-shirt on earlier. Did you forget where you put it?”
“You should be thankful I’m not free ballin’,” he replies. “That’s my usual vacation style.”
I close my mouth and dip my eyes back to my phone.
Me: Something came up and I have to stay longer. I’ll call you when I’m home.
Ronny: Want me to call in and see Roza?
Me: Would you? That would be great.
Relief floods through me. Despite my reasons for doing this, it’s been almost impossible to ignore the guilt of not being there.
Ronny: I’ll take her some Turkish Delight.
Me: Thank you so much x
“What’s got you smiling?” Fin asks, throwing a white pillow to the other end of the sofa. “Is it my magnificence?”
“You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
“Nope,” he says, popping the p. “I might even get it in a tattoo.”
“Knock yourself out,” I say, unfolding my legs to stand.
“Don’t you feel even a little bad for kicking a man out of his own bed?”
“Also nope.” Taking hold of my pendant, I shuffle my way around the ottoman.
“Hard woman.”
I startle as Fin suddenly takes stock of my hips from behind. Startle and almost melt. “The bed is big enough for us both,” he says, his voice low and sort of raspy. His fingers flex, like he’s trying to restrain himself. “It’s a California king.”
My shoulders begin to shake with a silent chuckle.
“My bed is funny?”
“Your pleading,” I say over my shoulder. “I said I’d take the couch. I don’t mind.”
With a groan he tips forward, and I think he’s about to kiss me, everything inside me tightening in preparation. Instead, he presses his nose to my hair. And inhales. “What kind of man would that make me?”
“One who really likes snakes?” I whisper.
“I really do.” He straightens, his hands falling away as he takes a step back. “May your dreams be plagued by me.”
“Not possible,” I say, turning and tapping my pendant. “The eye protects me from evil.”
“Hard and harsh,” he replies, but I hear his smile even if I don’t look back.
I make my way into the bedroom, feeling only slightly guilty as I close the door behind me. The room is quiet. So quiet. But for the loud thud-thud of my heart. It smells like him, his cologne and soap and something uniquely Fin.
I pull back the crisp white covers and slide in between the cool sheets, my phone still in my hand. And then I do what I was really going to do all along.
I open a Google search page and type in Phineas DeWitt.
The search bar autofills with What is Phineas DeWitt’s net worth.
Nope right out of that!
Wikipedia comes up first, so I give it a quick scan.
He has two sisters, both older.
Parents deceased. Like mine.
Raised by his grandparents in moneyed Westport. Similar to my upbringing. If you cross your eyes.
Schooling. All-boys boarding, as he said. Ivy League university and postgrad at LSE. Clever man.
I move back a page and scan my results. No Bookface. No ’Gram. No Pulse Tok. No social media whatsoever.
There are mentions of his name on several business and entrepreneurial sites, plus interviews with journalists. Forbes. The Financial Times. Bloomberg.
I scroll and scroll, so much of the same. Nothing salacious, which is surprising. Disappointing? His name comes up in lots of society news pages. Tabloid stuff, mostly. I open one or two. Then four or five. Then a few more, all of them in the same vein. A photograph of Fin looking movie-star attractive, a leggy looker on his arm. A byline that names the event, sometimes his companion, but the snapshots provide no more insight than that.
No damning indictments of his character. I’m not even sure why I’m looking for it.
Then I note a Blogspot entry, way down in the list. I open it up. It’s a screenshot of an article from the City Chronicle, dated last year.
A Little Bird Told Us . . .
news that makes a Little Bird’s heart and wings flutter.
Evelyn Fairfax, our poor Pulse Tok bride and virtuous doggy doctor, is sitting in a swanky Kensington restaurant right now with none other than Fin DeWitt, the handsome darling of London’s gossip columns.
Get you some, girl!
Fin and Evie? It’s a wonder he’s still breathing. Unless they were a thing first.
The screenshot of the article goes on . . .
If a Little Bird needed a broad shoulder to lean on, party-boy Fin’s would be top of the list!