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)
“Right there and then? In the ceremony meant for Oliver and Evie?”
“Was that the sound of you clutching at your pearls?” I retort, yanked back from the heavenly recollection. Mine to love and mine to fuck. Mine to spoil, to drip in diamonds, if I want. Oh, she is gonna hate that. The corner of my mouth hooks up at the thought.
“Were you still pretending to be them at that stage?”
“What?”
“Because that mad fucker will kill you if he’s finally gotten Evie pinned down and you’ve somehow made him a bigamist.”
“Don’t be an asshole. I got married in my own name. It’s not like it was planned, but I’m happy about it. In fact, I’m fucking ecstatic.”
“And what about the girl—is she happy with her choice of husband?”
I pause. I know I’ve made her happy a few times already today. As to the deeper meaning, she just needs to let go and relax into it a little.
“Fuckin’ eejit. What did you do?”
I should’ve just said yes—Yes, my wife is deliriously happy to find herself married to me.
“I didn’t do anything.” Which might turn out to be part of the problem when she finds out. If she finds out.
“So, what? She’s got cold feet?”
“No.”
“So she’s sick of you already?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Doesn’t she know women have been tryin’ to put a ring on it for years? And by it, I mean your nose?”
“Does my reputation precede me, you mean?”
“You’ve got more chance of nailing shit to a ceiling than this working out. You know that, right?”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
“Except for the huge-arse pregnant fuckin’ pause just now. What’s the issue? Is she not into this marriage quite as much as you?”
“Yet,” I mutter, staring up at the ceiling fan. “She’s not as into it yet.”
Saying the truth aloud makes me feel a little ill. “Look, she means more to me in a couple of days than—” A couple of days, my ass. I’ve been falling in love with her from the fucking coat closet.
But what if I can’t ever get her to the same point? I push the thought away.
Is it me? Is it her? Is it because her ex fucked her over and all men are scum?
A little of the first, thanks to the internet and my so-called fucking friends. And a little of the second, which ties into the third, I guess. And the third deserves my boot in his face.
I know what it’s like to be betrayed and what it takes to heal. I thought I had. Twenty years playing the field. How is that healthy? How is that supposed to make her trust me?
I have none of the answers. Except one. And that’s Mila. Every place I look, every path I consider taking, she’s at the end of it.
Another thought, another scenario, hits: I loaned her money—not that I want it back. Other women have considered me good for nothing but my cock and my wallet. What if she thinks this is my MO? What if she decides all I’m good for is throwing my dick around and throwing money at problems?
Matt makes a noise, long and low, pulling me from my unhappy musing. “I never thought I’d hear the day. Wait, this has got to be a first for you, right? First love?”
“Fuck off,” I drawl. No way I’m baring my soul to him.
“You can’t make someone love you, Fin.”
“Maybe you can’t. Besides, it’s not like that.” Or so I tell myself. I’m not used to losing, to struggling, so maybe that’s just my ego talking. My fall for Mila has been like a drop from a sheer cliff. Mila, meanwhile, is still standing on that edge. Will her fall be a slow tumble, or will she leap and soar someplace else?
Maybe now the shrooms are taking effect. That was some God-awful analogy.
“Well, I suppose there are worse things than getting married. Like getting married to a woman who isn’t into you.”
“I didn’t say that she wasn’t into me, asshole.” She’s into me, all right. I just need her to get to the place where she can see me in her life, beyond endless sun and tropical climes.
See me for who I really am.
A man who hasn’t had a serious relationship since he was still wet behind the ears. A man who’s used to getting what he wants, using his charm and his smile to make sure he comes out on top. What a fucking catch.
“Or contracting smallpox. Or Ebola. And what was the last one? Ah, that’s right. Gettin’ your dick caught in a meat slicer.”
“Yeah, okay. You’ve made your point.” I said all those things at Oliver’s bachelor party, though I use the term party very loosely. I’d been up for a weekend in Ibiza for the celebration, or a weeklong blowout in Vegas, though the latter wasn’t Oliver’s style. Matt suggested a Dublin pub crawl for the excellent craic, and I even threw in Prague as a second and more cultured attempt. But Oliver rejected any and all plans, adamant he’d be in bed with Evie by the end of his bachelor night.