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)
“Wait, wait, wait,” I say, ignoring the flush of heat his words cause. “Let’s back it up a bit. Who, under the age of seventy, says strumpet?”
“We have established you like older men.” He pushes off the doorframe and stalks toward me. My insides flip. “Maybe I can borrow a walking stick, and we can indulge in a little role-playing, Mila style.”
“First of all, eww. Second, what even is a strumpet?” As I speak, I turn my head, following his path as he moves behind me to the top of the bath.
“A very bad girl,” he says, drawing the words out as he encourages me to lie back.
And I do, jumpy and sort of nervous as I force my arms to remain by my sides. My body is such a pale contrast to the dark water.
“A strumpet is a very wicked creature.” He dips his hands into the warm water, and I bite my bottom lip as his bare chest brushes my shoulders. His hands skate up my arms, the bath oil aiding their slick slide. “Who loves to tease.”
“Sounds like you might be a strumpet.”
His laughter sounds so dirty as his hands swipe across my shoulders before making a return journey. They move momentarily away, returning with a natural sponge. This time, he reaches over me, dipping it into the water before showering it over the tops of my breasts.
“Sit up. I’ll wash your back.”
The fact that this isn’t a request makes me tingle all over. It’s a good thing he’s behind me, because it’s not the heat from the bath that’s making my face hot. I do as I’m bidden, the water sluicing up the bath’s sides before Fin begins to soap me up, drawing soft circles over my skin.
“I’ve got some news.”
I turn my head and watch him in profile as his words echo in the cavernous room.
“We’re not going to be able to go down the annulment path,” he adds, his expression unchanging.
I turn away, not sure what to say as my mind struggles to process, jumping from pleasure to uncertainty. “You spoke to your legal team again?”
“I just got off the phone with the head guy. There’s no space for wrangling, legally speaking. But I’m assured it’ll be easy to fix once we’re back in London.”
“How? How easy can a divorce be? Because that’s what we’re talking about, right?” My mind begins to run through the implications. Married. To him. But not really. There are bound to be complications, even if the marriage is just on paper.
Baba’s nursing home, for one. The thought brings with it a sinking feeling. As she has no assets to speak of, the local authority—the state, I suppose—is responsible for the fees of her current nursing home. My upcoming windfall, the reason I’d supposedly fake married Fin, means I’ll have the funds to contribute—to choose to place her somewhere and pay the shortfall. That was the plan, at least.
But if I’m suddenly married to a wealthy man, a man who has already contributed—because that’s how his loan will appear to the authorities—might I then become liable for the fees? Her current (mediocre) nursing home charges thousands a month.
My new nest egg isn’t going to get us very far.
“Try and relax, Mila. I promise I’ll fix things.”
I snap out of my thoughts, relieved at the interruption. Not that I can tell Fin any of this.
You could try, not-Ronny suggests. But I ignore her.
I’ve stood on my own two feet my whole adult life, through good times and bad. I’m not about to get out my begging bowl now.
“Your legal people, they won’t blab, will they?”
“Lawyers have a code of ethics they’re bound to.”
“Oh. Of course. But—”
“And watertight NDAs.”
I frown and nod at the same time. “We can’t tell anyone. Not even your friends.”
“Still want to keep me your dirty little secret?”
I ignore his teasing. Wouldn’t that be more the other way around? “I’m serious. You especially can’t tell Evie and Oliver.”
“I know, you already said.” But his tone sounds uncertain.
“I mean it.” I turn my head over my shoulder as I make a grab for his wrist. “Promise me, Fin.”
“Sure.” He doesn’t get it, judging by his expression. “This isn’t the big deal you think it is.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I murmur, turning away again. “I doubt you’ve ever had to wear the weight of other people’s judgment.”
“Fuck what people think. I should’ve said that before. I never judged you, not even before.”
Before he knew about Baba, he means. Maybe he’d judge me if he knew what Baba had predicted. He might even think I did this on purpose.
“I don’t care that Oliver offered to pay you. That was business, nothing more. What happened after was apart, and nothing to do with anyone but us.”
I huff a breath. It’s not quite a laugh. It all sounds so fucked up. Oliver, his best friend, paid me to fake marry him. Not to real marry him. Not to have lots and lots of sex with him. Not to fall in love with him. Which I won’t. Still, I can’t help but think how people would twist this, make it sound as worthless as Oliver buying his best man a lap dance.