Chapter 8 #2
“I can’t, Maya. Even if I wanted to.” I bite my lip hard enough to send pain flashing through my jaw. “I completely shut him down. Hard. Gave him the Big Goodbye. Practically slammed the door in his face.”
“So? Men are forgiving when they’re horny, and he’s clearly horny for you.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I say, cheeks flushing hot as I imagine Oliver reading all the terrible things the internet’s had to say about me. He’s probably decided I’m repulsive by now. “And even if you’re right, I didn’t get his number.”
“What?!” she bleats loud enough to make me pull my cell away from my ear. “You didn’t get his number?”
“Nope. And I refused to give him mine. I was too busy being outraged that he’d lied about being famous. Or infamous. Or whatever it is that royal-adjacent people are.”
“Okay, fine, then we find another way,” Maya says, clearly not ready to let this go. “What about social media? Does he have any? You could slip into his DMs.”
“His Instagram has a blue check and two million followers. I’m not sliding into those DMs.”
“Then leave a message at his office. You said he owns an architecture—”
She’s interrupted by a sharp knock.
“Hold on, that’s my shoes,” I say, heading for the door. “The lady at Selfridges said they would be here by noon.”
“Your shoes?”
“I broke a heel during the nativity disaster.” I navigate around the room service cart, avoiding the judgmental gaze of my soggy eggs. “It’s probably one of the reasons I looked so weird in those pictures, one of my heels was…” I reach for the door, words trailing off as I swing it open.
My jaw drops and my eyes widen.
It’s my shoes all right, a sensible pair of nude pumps in a Selfridges box.
But that’s no delivery boy.
That’s Oliver Featherswallow, in a charcoal suit that’s giving major designer vibes and a sapphire tie that makes his eyes look even more dangerously blue-gray. His hair is perfectly styled, his shave is fresh, and he’s studying me with a determined expression.
So determined, it’s bordering on confrontational, in fact, but that doesn’t stop my stupid body from tingling at the sight of him.
“Hello, love,” he says with a brisk, but warm, familiarity, as if I didn’t give him the “big goodbye” just a few hours ago. “I have it all sorted. The answer to both our problems. It’s brilliant, so am I, and you’re welcome.” He lifts the shoe box between us. “Now, where do you want these?”
He pushes past me, summoning a startled huff from my lips.
Before I can speak, Olly adds, “And don’t even think of putting up a fuss, Darling.
Pretending we’re an established couple to throw the bloody press off our scent is the perfect solution.
I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. I simply won’t.
You would be wasting your breath and my time.
And considering I have to be at a luncheon in less than an hour, that would be ill-advised. ”
“Did you hear all that?” I mutter into my cell.
“Sure did.” Maya’s laugh is loud and delighted. “What a clever man with fantastic ideas! I like him a lot.”
“I’m sure you do,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Who’s that?” Oliver nods toward my cell.
“Maya, my business partner,” I grit again.
He brightens as he sets my heels on the bureau. “Lovely! Hello, Maya, delighted to meet you. I’m Oliver, Emily’s new fake boyfriend. Though I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the fake part between us.”
“Will do,” Maya shouts, loud enough to make me wince. “Goodbye, Em. Sounds like you’re in excellent hands.”
Then she hangs up.
Just…hangs up.
Leaving me alone with the wickedly handsome man currently stretching out on my still-made hotel bed.
He parks his hands behind his head with a grin, before asking, “So, how do you want to play this, Em? Personally, I think we have to have been seeing each other for a while. A lengthier connection makes everything far less scandalous. So, assuming you haven’t been dating anyone Stateside… ”
“I haven’t,” I say before I’ve given my lips permission to move. “But that doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to any of this,” I hurry to add. “I don’t like lying. I’m not a liar.”
“Well, neither am I, love, but sometimes a little truth-bending is necessary in the name of the greater good.” His brows lift. “Speaking of the greater good, have you checked your email recently?”
Frowning harder, I nod. “Yes, why?”
“You should have received something hopeful from Belinda, yes?”
“No, I—” I cut a glance toward my laptop. “I don’t think so, but I guess I could have missed it in all the…excitement.”
“Check and see,” he encourages. “I stopped by her shop this morning for a little heart-to-heart. Once I explained how sorry you were, she agreed to give you another shot at a consultation.”
I stand up straighter, hope flooding through my chest. “What? Really?”
He nods toward my computer again. “Really. See for yourself. I’m not sure what times she’s offered, but I would recommend rearranging your schedule to accommodate her.”
“Oh my God, of course, obviously.” I lean over the bureau, scrolling through my email with shaking fingers, breath rushing out when I see a message I apparently missed.
“You’re right. She reached out about half an hour ago.
She said she can do Thursday morning! Right before she opens.
Which is perfect, I—” I break off with another relieved exhale as I spin to face him.
“Thank you, Olly. Seriously. You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”
He beams. A little smugly.
But hell, a little smugness is completely deserved.
And I do really appreciate his help.
But that doesn’t mean I think it’s a good idea to lie to the entire world…
I’m about to tell him so—and do my best to explain why even casual lies are against my moral code and better judgment—when a message pops through on my phone.
It’s my contact at Fletchers, Christoph, asking if I’m the woman in the tabloid photos that are all over the U.K. this morning.
“Damnit.” I knead at the stress knot forming in my neck.
“Bad news?” Olly asks.
“It’s all bad news this morning,” I mutter.
Now, I’m going to have to explain myself to my client.
And I’m sure that explanation will be a lot less damning if I tell Christoph that my “boyfriend” and I got carried away with our reunion after months apart instead of confessing to a sloppy one-night stand with a stranger I didn’t realize was a paparazzi target.
“Okay. Fine,” I mutter, shutting my phone off with a jab of my thumb and tossing it onto the bureau by my shoes.
I’ll get back to Christoph later, after Olly and I have everything worked out.
“A fake relationship it is.” His expression lifts, but before he can speak, I warn, “But we’ll need rules.
Iron-clad ones. And a backstory to match”
He nods. “Of course. I would expect nothing less. I know how much you like rules. And lists.” His eyes glitter as he adds, “I’m assuming there will be lists? I admit, I’ll be disappointed if I don’t get a least a list or two of my very own.”
“I’m serious,” I say, refusing to be drawn in by his charm. Not again. “We’ll need to be smart about this. And careful. Very careful. If we get caught in a lie, it would make an already bad thing a hundred times worse.”
Sobering, he says in a softer voice, “Yes, Emily. I understand. And I won’t let you down, I promise.”
My stomach flutters at the sincerity in his gaze, that same gaze that penetrated my soul last night as other parts of him penetrated…other parts of me.
The flutter prompts me to whisper, “And it’s going to be fake, Olly. It has to be. I don’t have the bandwidth for anything more. I didn’t before the tabloid disaster this morning, and I certainly don’t now.”
“I understand,” he says with only the slightest hint of disappointment, and he’s already smiling again as he adds, “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun along the way. It’s Christmas, after all. The time for joy and good cheer.” He bounds off the bed. “Get dressed.”
I blink. “I am dressed.”
“I mean dressed dressed,” he says, adding in response to my no doubt perplexed expression, “In something you can wear to a society luncheon. It’s an old-school crowd, so best if it’s a dress that hits below the knee.
With tights of some kind. Mother has a thing about people showing up to functions with bare legs, even in the misery of summer. ”
He claps his hands before making a little shooing motion my way.
“Spit spot, off you go. I can step outside if you don’t want to change in the loo, but we need to be quick.
” He glances at his watch. “We’ll need to leave in twenty minutes to make it on time, and that’s assuming traffic isn’t beastly on the way to Spencer House.
My mother has zero patience for tardiness, and we’ll want a few minutes to spare for the introductions. ”
My eyes go wide. “Oh, no, Oliver. I can’t. I couldn’t possibly.” I claw at the neck of my sweater, the cowl neck suddenly feeling too snug. “I can’t meet your mother. Not now, not today, right after—”
“Of course, you can,” he says. “Best to rip the bandage off and get the wound to healing.”
I frown. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“My metaphors aren’t the best after a night at the pub,” he says.
“I just meant, it’s best to get last night behind us and set off again on the right foot.
The luncheon will be the perfect place to start.
My brother is the star of the day, the speakers will keep us from being forced into too much small talk, and we’ll show the world we’re a united front right away in…
” He glances at his watch again. “Less than six hours from when the pictures dropped.” He shifts his focus back to me with a grin.
“Pretty damned good, if I do say so myself.”
“B-but I don’t have anything to wear,” I say, instead of the dozen other anxious thoughts racing through my mind. “The airline lost my big suitcase, and I only have—”
“Right,” he cuts in. “Then, we’d best be off.
There’s a dress shop at the end of the block.
I’m sure they’ll have something in your size.
” He grabs the box with my shoes inside and heads for the door.
“Grab your coat, love. We have a dress to buy and a backstory to concoct before we feast on cold sandwiches and Christmas pudding.”
He pauses at the door, shooting a firm glance over his shoulder. “Come on, Em. No time to dilly-dally.” His voice gentles as he adds, “You can do this. I know you can.”
“Yes, I can,” I shoot back, suddenly irritated by his assumption that I’m a lily-livered coward. (Even though I’m still feeling plenty lily-livered at the thought of meeting his family mere hours after shots of me humping his leg hit the internet.) “But I can’t do it without shoes.”
He glances down at the box under his arm, then back at me with a grin. “Oh, right. Sorry about that, Darling.”
“Not a problem, Featherswallow,” I say, lips twitching despite myself as I take the box he sheepishly hands over. “Your name really is ridiculous. No offense.”
“None taken,” he says. “According to the family lore, it originated in the eleventh century, with an ancestor who rather unfortunately resembled a bird.”
I squint up at him as I perch on the bed to pull on my new pumps. “Yes…I think I see it now. A bit of pigeon around the eyes…”
He smiles, one of his wicked grins, the one that first imperiled my panties last night at the bar. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Darling. This relationship is fake. I will not be tempted back into your bed, no matter how many compliments you hurl at my feet. Or my pigeon eyes.”
Fighting a laugh, I nod. “Understood. I’ll try to control myself in the future.”
And I will.
But I’m not na?ve enough to think it will be easy.
We’re less than two minutes into this, and I’m already having a hard time suppressing a fresh tingle as my fake boyfriend tucks my arm through his and aims us toward the hotel lobby.