Chapter 6
Chapter Six
EMILY
Iwake to that kind of pink, December morning light that makes everything look romantic.
Even epic mistakes.
But damn, what a gorgeous mistake…
For exactly five seconds, I let myself enjoy the warm weight of Olly’s arm draped across my waist, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead, the calligraphy of his swoop of an upper lip.
His mouth is a thing of beauty.
And so skilled at delivering orgasms, it should come with a warning label: Caution—May Cause Pleasure so Intense You’ll Wake up Hoarse from Screaming this Man’s Name.
His name…which I still only know half of.
The thought chills the warmth kindling between my thighs.
I still have no idea who Olly really is. Or how he pays for this luxury flat. For all I know, he could be a drug dealer who rules the London suburbs with a rakish smile and a switchblade. Or a wickedly charming City solicitor who’s priced out every family-run shop on the high street.
Or—even worse—a crypto bro with a podcast.
The thought makes me shudder. I have to get out of this bed and pull myself together. Make a plan. Get my business trip back on track.
Figure out what time it is…
I glance toward the bedside table, but my phone isn’t there.
My stomach knots. Did I leave it at the pub? Or, even worse, somewhere outside in the snow? The chances it could have fallen out of my coat pocket while Olly and I were vigorously making out against that lamppost are greater than zero.
Far greater.
Shit!
This is bad. Very bad!
What the hell were you thinking, Emily Katherine Darling?
The answer is, I wasn’t. For one glorious night, I stopped making lists and analyzing consequences and threw caution—and my panties—to the wind.
But morning always comes, and with it, the resurrection of all the real-life problems that didn’t magically vanish in the heat Olly and I generated between the sheets last night.
Anxiety continuing to creep in on stabby needle feet, I ease out from under his arm and slip from between the covers.
My bare feet hit the cold floor, the chill helping to banish the last of the morning-after glow.
Yesterday’s clothes are scattered around the room and out into the hall like evidence at a crime scene, looking even more rumpled and pathetic in the light of day.
I gather everything quietly and tiptoe out to the living room with its breathtaking views of snow-covered London. There, between the couches and the gleaming modern kitchen, my roller case waits by the door, miraculously intact despite our chaotic entrance last night.
Thank God for small favors and sturdy luggage.
The guest bathroom is decorated in a tasteful mix of bamboo and recycled glass tiles that’s giving Luxury Spa, but my Zen remains thoroughly out of reach.
I quickly change into fresh clothes—cream-colored wool pants and my lucky red sweater, the one I was wearing when I landed two high society weddings in one day last fall.
My hair is a disaster from going to bed with it wet, the curls flat on one side and coiled into ringlets on the other.
I dig through my toiletry bag, making do with a small bottle of sea spray curl refresher.
I would wet my hair and try again, but all my full-sized curl products are missing in action, along with my checked baggage.
Stupid London airport.
Stupid lost luggage.
Stupid sex hair.
Still, I can’t fully regret the sex hair, even as I tie my curls back with a poinsettia print silk scarf that looks more “fussy old lady” around a ponytail than it does when knotted at my neck. Last night was, without a doubt, the best sex of my life. No contest.
I mean, it’s not like I’ve had all that much sex, especially recently, but my college boyfriends were both very committed to leaving it all on the field in the bedroom. They tried, bless them, though their efforts often had little effect until my vibrator joined the fun.
I’d just assumed I wasn’t a particularly orgasmic person.
That maybe I was too uptight to fully relax into the experience.
Or that perhaps I’d ruined my clitoris for human hands and tongues with too much mechanical stimulation and would be dependent on a vibrator to “get there” for the rest of my life.
But no.
I just needed an Olly between my legs.
Olly’s fingers, Olly’s tongue, Olly’s…
“No, you’re not going to think about that,” I mutter to my reflection.
Thinking about Olly’s penis is a good way to end up back in bed with it again, and I can’t afford distractions right now. Not even a fabulously sexy one so perfectly shaped and highly skilled that I might never meet its match again.
My entire professional future is on the line. Maya’s counting on me. The catering company and florists we keep busy in New York are counting on me. And how will my family feel if they learn I bailed on our Darling Family Christmas only to fly home an embarrassment and a failure?
Nope. That’s not going to happen.
I refuse to let it.
I hustle out of the bathroom, stuff my old clothes into my dirty linen bag, and zip up my roller. A few minutes later, I find my giant purse on the floor by the couch, my laptop still tucked safely inside its protective sleeve.
But a thorough paw through the rest of the contents turns up no sign of my cell.
I open my suitcase again to check my blazer and skirt pockets—nothing—then empty my purse onto the floor.
But aside from a roll of mints I missed the first time, my purse holds nothing of interest. Popping a mint into my mouth, I check the cushions on the couch, every inch of the carpet—including in the bedroom, where Olly is still fast asleep—and the hallway leading to the elevator outside.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve checked everywhere, including inside the mostly-empty kitchen cupboards and the fridge, and I’m starting to panic.
I can’t leave without my phone!
My entire life is in there—my calendar, my contacts, my notebook app full of lists, my color-coded crisis management apps.
But it’s also synced with my laptop, I remember, a whisper of hope filtering through my increasingly anxious thoughts. And my laptop has a “find my device” app I’ve used before, back when my ex-boyfriend and I had the same phone case, and he kept taking my cell to work by mistake.
The tightness in my chest easing a bit, I pull out my laptop and settle onto the couch. I connect to the building’s thankfully password-free WIFI, but before I can navigate to the app, the notifications hit like an avalanche.
Maya: OMG EMILY ARE YOU OKAY? HAVE YOU SEEN IT?
YOU HAVE TO HAVE SEEN IT, RIGHT? Ugh, I’m so sorry.
Journalists are awful. I hate them! I mean, not all journalists, but the tabloid ones.
They deserve to be drawn and quartered. Or at least have every embarrassing picture anyone has ever taken of them leaked online.
Maya: Shit, it’s not even six a.m. over there. You might not have seen it. You probably aren’t awake yet, are you? Or you might be DEAD! Are you dead? Please text me as soon as you get this and let me know that you’re not dead, okay?
Maya: UPDATE: You are probably not dead.
I just googled this guy, and he seems harmless.
I mean, not harmless to your reputation as you are currently TRENDING ON UK TWITTER in a very unpleasant way.
And I’m pretty sure this is the kind of thing that proves not ALL publicity is good publicity.
But harmless as far as the chances that you are lying dead in a ditch with your guts spilling out onto the blood-splattered snow.
God, I’ve watched way too many crime documentaries.
I’m going to stop that in the New Year. Or start watching even more if we go bankrupt, and I have nothing to do with my time except move back into my childhood bedroom and binge Netflix with my parents.
Please know that I’m not blaming you for this—you have every right to go home with a hot British guy—but this could be the nail in the coffin for Darling Events.
We have to get out ahead of this and make it better somehow.
Rewrite the narrative. Take control of the story. Something! There has to be a way.
Maya: I have an idea! A brilliant idea. Call me as soon as you get this. I’m not going to bed until we run damage control.
Maya: I mean it. Call me the second you wake up.
Maya: DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT LOOK AT TWITTER. IT WILL MAKE YOU SAD, AND I NEED YOU FOCUSED, NOT SAD!
“What is happening?” I mutter, rising to pace in front of the couch, laptop balanced in one hand.
I could try Facetiming Maya on my computer—that should work until I can find my phone—but I have to know what’s happening first.
And why half my contacts in New York are texting me, too…
A quick scroll through the rest of the messages reveals a mixture of friends congratulating me on my hot date, apologizing for how cruel people can be, and asking me to text them all the hot gossip ASAP.
There’s also a text from my mother— Sweetheart, Isabelle just sent me a concerning update about your London trip. Please call when you get a chance. Love you.—and several from Isabelle.
Though my little sister doesn’t seem “concerned.”
Elated is more the word I would use…
Isabelle: OMG EM, you’re famous!!!!
Isabelle: And you look GORGEOUS! Don’t listen to what those pathetic basement dwellers are saying in the comments. They’re just stupid, woman-hating jerks. Your curves are gorgeous, and clearly Oliver was a BIG FAN.
Isabelle: So, how serious is this? How long have you two been dating? And why didn’t you tell me that you have a brITISH BOYFRIEND?!?!
Isabelle: I hope it’s not because I’ve been too caught up in wedding planning stuff. No matter how busy I am, I always have time for my big sissy. You know that, right? And I am SO HAPPY for you!!!