Chapter 6 #2
Isabelle: I mean, could this be more perfect?
The girl who made me watch Sense and Sensibility ten thousand times as a kid is now living out her very own Colonel Brandon fantasy with a gorgeous British guy with a country estate!
! Have you been there? Is it swanky as fork?
A Viscount is a pretty big deal, right? I bet it’s super swanky.
Viscount?
What the...
I switch tabs so fast I almost drop the laptop. My fingers tap frantically at the keyboard, typing—Oliver, Viscount, mid-thirties, United Kingdom—into the search bar.
As the results load, I slowly forget how to breathe…
Because they aren’t all about Oliver.
Half of them are about Oliver and…me.
The Honorable Oliver David Dawson Featherswallow Spotted in Passionate Embrace with Mystery Woman.
Featherswallow Spare Finally Settling Down? Fifth in Line to Throne Gets Cozy with Plush Redhead
EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS: Lord Oliver’s Late Night Lamppost Liaison with Plump Pin-up
The pictures are grainy but unmistakable.
There’s me, pressed against a lamppost, kissing Oliver like the world is ending.
There’s Oliver’s hand in my hair, then cupping my breast through my shirt.
There’s my leg doing something that felt natural at the time, but in photos reminds me of that woman who encourages women to get out in the forest and rub their “minge” on trees.
“Minge” is the British word for pussy, and mine is about two inches from being out for show and tell in the last shot.
And the comments.
Oh God, the comments…
Who’s the tubby mess in the cheap suit?
She has to be American. They have no class. None at all. He should have stayed with Aisling. Why did they break up!?
Poor thing looks like she’s been dragged through a hedge backward after a donut binge. If I’d known the spare loved thighs that thick, I could have set him up with my sister. At least she knows how to use a hairbrush.
Ew. What exactly is going on here? Is she kissing him or eating his face? Has anyone checked on the spare’s face? Does he still have a face?
A man this good-looking could do so much better. SO much. SO SAD.
Ignoring the shame swelling in my chest and heating my cheeks, I click through to Oliver’s Wikipedia page with numb fingers.
The Honorable Oliver David Dawson Featherswallow. Thirty-four. Second son of Viscountess Vivian Marie Featherswallow, née Plimpton, and the late Viscount Harry Herbert Featherswallow, which tracks with what Olly was saying last night about his father.
Fifth in line to the throne.
That part is enough to blow my mind—and explains why he has paparazzi following him around.
Graduated top of his class at Oxford. Owns an architecture firm. Considered one of Britain’s most eligible bachelors…
Apparently, he once dated an earl’s daughter who looks like a supermodel. And an actual supermodel. And an Irish soap star with hair as red as mine, but thighs half the size, who has something of a cult following
Her fans are already in the comments, insisting I’m the poor man’s Aisling Grey and clearly a stand-in for a man regretting breaking up with his gorgeous Irish actress lady love.
Shit!
I’m going to throw up.
I really might.
I’m about to shut my laptop and make a run for the guest bathroom, just in case, when Maya texts again:
Maya: WHY AREN’T YOU CALLING ME? CALL ME!! I’ve tried calling you, but it just rings and rings before going to voicemail.
Maya: It’s 7:10 over there. I know you’re up by now. You never sleep past 7.
Maya: Emily, please, just call me. I promise, I’m not mad.
Maya: But we need to get ahead of this.
Maya: Take a deep breath and call me, and we can start sorting this out together.
Before I can Facetime her, two more texts pop through, within seconds of each other—
Bounty and Bloom: Good morning, Ms. Darling. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to consider working with you on the Fletchers’ gala. A trusted colleague has advised me against doing so. Wishing you the best.
Sunday Best Florists: Please remove us from your potential vendor list, Ms. Darling.
I don’t work with careless people. And your behavior last night at the nativity play—and afterwards, if that’s really you in the pictures with the Viscount’s brother—proves you are careless in the extreme. Kindly lose our number.
Oh God, no.
Belinda is still pissed and up early making calls. It’s the only explanation.
Maya’s going to kill me. I’m going to kill me. How could I—
“Morning, darling.”
I yip in surprise, nearly jumping out of my skin and sending the laptop flying.
I manage to catch it—thank God for small miracles—and clutch it to my chest as I spin to see Oliver standing in the hall.
He’s wearing boxer briefs and nothing else and, unlike yours truly, looks even better naked in the daylight.
He’s all muscles and the perfect dusting of dark hair and dancing blue eyes so warm and happy to see me, I almost forget he’s a dirty liar who lies.
Almost.
“How could you do this?” I demand, the words emerging shakier than expected. But then, I’m pretty darned “shook” right now.
His smile falters. “Do what?”
“Lie to me. Trick me. You said your name was Olly,” I say, rolling my shoulders back in hopes it will help me feel less small. “Not Oliver with some other names in the middle, Featherswallow. I’m no fan of the peerage, but even I know that name.”
“Because it’s ridiculous,” he supplies with a charmingly self-effacing smile, I refuse to fall for.
“Exactly,” I agree. “If you’d said Featherswallow, I would have known who you were and had at least some idea of what I was getting into. But you didn’t say it, because you didn’t want me to know. You wanted to keep me in the dark until it was too late, and I was a national laughing stock.”
He frowns. “What? Emily, I—”
“More like an international laughing stock,” I cut in, my voice cracking. “Everyone in New York and New Jersey has seen the pictures, too. As well as my sister in Switzerland and God knows who else.”
He drags a hand through his hair. “Fuck. How did this happen? We were completely alone!”
“Except that we weren’t,” I say, fighting tears. “And now our lamppost erotica is all over the internet. Hell, the entire world probably has an opinion about the pudgy disaster you were making out with in the snow last night by now.”
His gaze hardens. “Has someone said that about you? If so, I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing,” I say, shaking my head.
“You can’t do anything. You’re fifth in line to the throne, for God’s sake.
You have to behave yourself and be a good little Viscount’s baby brother.
I know how the royal stuff works.” I sniff.
“And you’ll be fine anyway.” I stuff my laptop back into its sleeve with shaking hands.
“You’re a hot single guy. It’s the rest of us who are cannon fodder for the monsters of the internet. ”
“I’m so sorry, Emily. Truly,” he says, the pleading note in his voice making it harder to fight the tears stinging into my eyes. “Let’s just calm down, take a beat, and then—”
“It’s not fair, Olly,” I force out, blinking faster as I turn to meet his gaze. “You let me think you were just a guy drinking at a bar. A nice guy, who was kind of a sarcastic shit at first, but then turned out to be…pretty great.” His handsome face swims as I add in a whisper, “You lied to me.”
He exhales a rush of breath, his forehead furrows deepening as he says, “I didn’t, Em. I wasn’t lying, I promise. I was just…withholding.”
“Withholding,” I echo with a sharp laugh. “Well, the next time you decide to withhold, be decent enough to be discreet about it. That way, the next woman who’s dumb enough to go home with you won’t have to wake up to internet abuse and the possible end of her career.”
“It’s not going to be the end of your career. I won’t allow it.” He steps closer and I back away, nearly tripping over my roller bag. “Listen, I have connections in high places, I can—”
“I bet you do,” I say, hating the tears now streaming down my cheeks. “But I don’t. And I have to go.”
My laptop pings in my purse.
I gulp and swipe at my eyes. “That’s probably another florist, texting to let me know that they don’t work with people Belinda Moore hates. She’s turned the entire London floral industry against me, and it’s not even eight o’clock.”
“Emily, please, I can help,” he insists. “I promise I can.”
“You’ve helped enough,” I say, stuffing my feet into my ruined shoes.
“I just need to find my phone, get out of here, and call my business partner before she has a nervous breakdown.” I bite my lip, fighting a fresh wave of tears.
“But I’ve already looked everywhere, and I can’t find my phone, so it’s probably lost to a snow drift somewhere and—”
“No, it’s not,” he cuts in. “It’s on top of the fridge.”
I blink. “Wh-what?”
“It’s on the fridge,” he says, a sheepish expression on his face. “I may have put it there last night after you said you were leaving first thing in the morning.”
My jaw drops. “You hid my phone?”
“I didn’t hide it. I relocated it.” He crosses to the kitchen and reaches up—way up, to a place I never could have seen without a stepladder—and retrieves my phone.
When he turns back, seeing my no doubt stunned expression, he adds, “Okay, fine, I hid it, but I didn’t do it to upset you.
I just… I didn’t want you to leave without saying goodbye. And perhaps giving me your number…”
The admission makes my chest ache in a way that can’t be totally chalked up to anger or betrayal.
Which only makes me angrier. I can’t afford to have soft feelings for Oliver Featherswallow right now. Or ever again.
I snatch the phone from his hand, noting the twenty-something missed calls.
Probably Maya.
Or my mother.
Or Isabelle.
Or more florists calling to assure me I’ll never secure a floral arrangement in this town again. I might as well tuck tail and waddle back across the pond.
“Goodbye, Oliver,” I mutter, ignoring the stab of regret in my gut as I shove the phone into my purse.
“Good luck with everything. I’m sure you have a P.R.
person, but just in case they’re at a loss for ideas, I’d suggest getting back together with Aisling.
” I grab my roller and start for the door, tossing over my shoulder, “The people in the comments really liked you two together.”
“Don’t do this, Emily,” he calls after me. “Last night was special. You know it was.”
I pause in the doorway, glancing back at him. He’s still in his underwear, looking gorgeous and genuinely distressed, and for a split second, I’m tempted to close the door. Go back into the gorgeous flat. Let him hug me and “help.”
But he can’t help, not really.
It would be like a seagull trying to help a fish. Or a tubby chunk of kelp growing on the ocean floor. We live in two completely different worlds, and the sooner I face that reality, the better. Olly and I don’t work.
Heck, there is no Olly.
There’s only Oliver Featherswallow, an obscenely wealthy man in line for the throne who has no idea what life is like for the rest of us.
And no, he can’t really help that.
But he could have helped what he did last night. He didn’t have to lie and play me for a fool, leaving me defenseless against an onslaught of the kind of attention I’ve never wanted. I make other people’s parties go viral; I have no urge to be the focus of the spotlight myself.
Especially this kind of spotlight.
So, I just shake my head and close the door softly behind me. Then, I hobble down the hall in my broken heels.
The elevator arrives with a cheerful ding that feels like another stab in the back.
As the doors close, I catch my reflection in the polished steel.
Yesterday’s eye makeup is smeared under my eyes.
My ponytail looks like I’ve been electrocuted by Christmas lights.
And what might be a hickey is peeking out of the top of my cowl neck sweater.
The British tabloids were right.
I am a disaster.
A tubby, American, nativity-destroying, career-imploding agent of pandemonium who’s just walked away from the first man to make her “Big O” without help from a battery-operated boyfriend. The first man to make her laugh and feel carefree in longer than she can remember.
A man who did seem genuinely sorry for the mistakes he’d made…
“And he seemed to like you,” I whisper. “As much as you liked him.”
As the elevator descends, I allow myself two floors of regret.
Then I pull out my phone and start typing a list into my notes app:
Operation: Fix Everything
1. Call Maya. Apologize Profusely. Tell her about florist blackballing. Assure her you will not rest until you make this better.
2. Run damage control with remaining florists.
3. Find wizard/time machine to undo last 12 hours
4. Stop thinking about Oliver’s hands
5. And all his other parts.
6. And his smile and the fact that no man has ever been so desperate for your phone number.
7. Do NOT cry in the Uber.
8. Remember: You’re a strong, independent, entrepreneurial woman. You fix things. You don’t need a prince (or fifth-in-line-to-the-throne) to save you.
The elevator opens to the lobby, and I square my shoulders, marching out into the snowy London morning like a general heading to war.
A war I’m probably going to lose, but still…
At least I’ll go down fighting in sensible shoes.
As soon as I find time to buy some.