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)
“A high-profile husband,” he repeats.
“You mean a notorious playboy,” I counter.
His playful expression falters, and I’m immediately apologetic—I’m angry and lashing out when none of this is his fault.
“That was unfair,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. If you want to make it up to me, there are still twenty minutes before we land.”
“You wish.” Maybe I do too. But only couples in a real relationship have makeup sex. “Can we really do this?” I begin again. “Pretend it’s real, the same way as we have been?”
“Sure we can.”
“But we won’t be doing it for Oliver and Evie. We’ll be doing it for my business.”
He shrugs, unconcerned.
“Why? Why would you help me?”
“Because we’re in this together.” He reaches for both of my hands.
“But what about your friends? What do we tell them?”
“We can tell them the truth, or we can say we’re in love. That’s up to you.”
“You’d lie to them? For me?”
“You’ve got more to lose, so yeah, I’d lie to them. If you want me to.”
“I think that might be best,” I whisper, feeling like such a shit.
He gives a decisive inclination of his head. “We’ll issue a press release. Post the news of our wedding in The Times, saying we met months ago, which is true. We’re basically sticking to the facts.”
“Minus the closet interlude,” I add. “That wouldn’t help.”
“We’ll say we’ve been keeping our relationship under wraps. That we weren’t ready to share any of the details. Also somewhat true.”
“But what about your dating life? The women you’ve been seeing in between then and now. Will they be as discreet, do you think?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“And then what?” I ask, not quite understanding why he’d go along with this.
“We’ll stay together at least until your business has recovered. Keep the divorce plans on the down-low in the meantime.”
“No more jokes about settlements, please. You’ve done enough for me.”
Fin is a lot of things. Annoying and irreverent. Insanely good looking and super hot. Kind and generous. Sweet sometimes. Infuriatingly maddening. But I still don’t get why he’d do this. Other than amazing sex.
Agata suddenly appears by Fin’s seat, her expression giving nothing away as she does a surreptitious seat belt check. “Is there anything I can get you?” she asks with a smile. “Last chance saloon before we come in to land.”
“Thank you, Agata. We’re fine.”
She smiles and leaves again.
“Fine will do,” Fin adds, turning to me once again. “Fine is making the most of the situation. But what that situation is, is up to you.”
Chapter 26
Mila
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I say for what feels like the thirteenth time since we entered the terminal. Unaccosted, I might add, because rich people don’t have to clear immigration. Or collect their own baggage. And neither does a rich person’s spouse. Winning?
“I mean, sure, it’s up to you,” Fin says, his hand tightening on mine. For the sake of appearances, I allow it. “But I’m not sure how you expect people to believe we’re in a real marriage if we’re not living in the same house.”
“One of the Kardashians doesn’t live with her husband.”
“I don’t know who that is. But I’m guessing they aren’t trying to fool half of London.”
“And I’m pretty sure I read Gwyneth Paltrow and her husband don’t live together full time,” I say in lieu of an answer.
“As newlyweds? Wouldn’t that kind of arrangement go against everything your business stands for? Love, togetherness, forever?”
“Forever means no repeat customers,” I repeat disingenuously. “Look, I’ll think about it,” I add as I begin to dig in my purse for my phone, eventually pulling it out from the depths.
“What are you doing?”
“Booking an Uber,” I say, pointing the screen his way as though the answer is obvious.
Fin expels an exasperated huff. “My driver will be outside. He can drop you off wherever.”
“No need,” I answer quickly, pulling the sides of my cardigan closer. I already feel so out of place in my leggings, T-shirt, and Converse. “It’s fine. An Uber is fine.” And much more my style. Some might even say an upgrade, I think as I flick through the app, mostly to avoid his gaze. There’s no way he or his driver is taking me home. Not to Baba’s flat. Even if I could convince him to stay in the car and not walk me to the door, which I know I won’t manage, the experience would still be mortifying. The whole place is a dump.
“You’re not getting an Uber home,” he says, leaning into that bossy thing. The zaddy thing. Or maybe the daddy thing. Whatever. It’s like he’s guessed what it does to me. Which is simultaneously turn me on and piss me off.
“Married or not, this isn’t the 1950s. If I want to get an Uber, you’re not going to stop me.” Even if it is going to cost me an arm and a leg to get home.