Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
OLIVER
Ithrive on a sense of urgency, but this is really cutting things close…
Seventeen minutes. That’s all we have to find Emily a dress suitable for meeting the crème de la crème of London society, then dash over to Spencer House before the salad course is served.
But at least there’s no overzealous member of the sales staff hovering about, slowing our progress.
Once I explained the situation, the shop assistant—a severe-looking woman who introduced herself as Claudette—deposited us in the largest fitting room with an armful of options before discreetly withdrawing, seeming to recognize that panic purchases require focus and privacy.
Or perhaps she recognized us from the gossip sites and assumed we might want to be alone for other reasons.
Either way, her absence is a blessing given the delicate nature of the things we need to discuss.
“How’s the first one coming along?” I call through the velvet curtain.
“It’s doing weird things to my chest,” Emily calls back.
“Well, Christ, can’t have that. That’s my job,” I joke without thinking, then catch myself.
Fake relationship, Featherswallow.
Boundaries. Etcetera.
“Sorry,” I add, “I was just—”
“Just joking, I know,” she cuts in. “Don’t worry about it. That was my fault. I set you up too perfectly. But here, you can see what I mean.”
The curtain swishes open, and Emily emerges in what can only be described as a catastrophe in beige. The dress appears to be attacking her from all angles—crushing her chest while simultaneously adding volume to her hips, with sleeves that could double as shriveled bat wings.
“Oh, dear, Darling,” I mutter, making her laugh. “How tragic.”
“I know,” she agrees. “I look like an accountant on my way to the ball.”
“No, you look like my Year Three headmistress,” I counter. “Mrs. Broombottom. She dressed exclusively in beige and smelled of cold turkey. Which is a very beige smell, if you think about it.”
Emily laughs. “It is.”
“She loathed me. Made me write ‘I will not put frogs in the fountain’ three hundred times after class on multiple occasions. Very unfair.”
She arches a brow. “Did you put the frogs in the fountain?”
“Well, yes, of course. Repeatedly,” I confess without hesitation.
“In the fountain, in the gymnasium, in the cook’s pantry by the flour bins.
I was quite committed to amphibian relocation as a boy.
” I wave at the dress. “Point is, we can’t have you going about looking like a Broombottom and giving me flashbacks.
Next, please. We’re scandalously short on time. ”
“Right.” Emily retreats behind the curtain.
The rustling of fabric fills the small space as she changes, and I try very hard not to think about the fact that she’s naked just a few feet away.
Try and fail, but hell, at least I tried.
“Speaking of being short on time,” she says, her voice muffled by the velvet, “We should get our story straight. At least the basics, so we’re not scrambling to answer questions on the fly. So, how did we meet, how long have we been dating, etc?”
“We met at a cocktail party while I was in New York in September,” I say, having already thought this through on the walk to her hotel.
“I was in the city for three weeks, so that provides the perfect time frame. We met my first weekend there, clicked instantly, and spent every spare moment together. Things were going so swimmingly, we decided to give a long-distance relationship a go.”
“But we decided not to tell our parents or friends because…we were worried it might not last?” she poses.
“Yes,” I agree. “We were absolutely made for each other, of course, but neither of us had ever pulled off a long-distance relationship before. Does that track for you?”
“Absolutely,” she confirms. “I’m not a long-distance girl. I have a hard enough time keeping a relationship going when we’re in the same time zone.”
“Right. Same,” I agree, my stomach sinking at the reminder that more than pretend likely isn’t in the cards for us.
But she’s in London now, and I was in NYC in September…
Seems like two savvy travelers might be able to manage long-distance without too many headaches if properly motivated by good times and hot sex.
“All right, that was easy. On to the rules of fake dating engagement, I guess,” she adds, pulling me from my hopeful reverie.
“Ah, yes, the parameters of our deception.” I lean against the wall. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, obviously, we keep the fact that it’s pretend a secret. Only Maya knows the truth. I hate lying to my family, but if my mother or sister knows that I’m fibbing, they’ll accidentally spill the beans. They’re wonderful people, but very bad at keeping secrets.”
“My family is the same,” I agree. “And my grandmother’s rather invested in this being the real deal. I’d hate to spoil her fun right off the bat.”
The rustling behind the curtain stops. “What do you mean, invested?”
“Well, she rang earlier,” I confess. “I thought she was going to haul me over the coals, but turns out she’s a big fan of lamppost kissing.
And of yours, actually. She gave her stamp of approval right away and ordered me to bring you round to her holiday party Saturday night. Assuming you’re free, of course.”
A muffled groan fills the air. “Oh, Oliver, I hate that. I don’t want to lie to some sweet old woman.”
“Oh, she’s not sweet,” I assure her quickly, though lying to someone I admire as much as Grandmother isn’t particularly high on my list, either.
“She’s a feisty old broad and only has patience for meddling in her grandchildren’s love lives November through March.
Come spring, when her garden’s back in bloom, she’ll be distracted by more important things.
She just gets bored in winter. Last January, she tried to set Edward up with her dental hygienist and a woman who teaches exotic dancing to seniors at her social club. ”
Emily snorts. “How did that go?”
“Awkwardly. Edward was already engaged and living with his fiancée at the time. Matilda didn’t appreciate the interference.
Or the reminder that Grandmother finds her so forgettable for some reason.
” I check my watch again. Fourteen minutes.
“Speaking of living arrangements, you’ll need to move into my flat. ”
“Excuse me?”
“The press will be watching,” I explain, pretending the thought of shacking up with Emily isn’t making me slightly giddy.
“It would be strange if you weren’t staying with me, considering the long-standing nature of our relationship and all.
It would lead to more questions instead of putting curiosity to bed.
And my flat is walking distance from Fletchers, Belinda’s shop, and half the restaurants in London.
It’ll be a fantastic home base for you while you’re here. ”
“All right,” she agrees after a pause, though she doesn’t sound happy about it. “But we’ll sleep in separate rooms. Every night. No exceptions.”
“Emily, you wound me. When have I been anything less than a perfect gentleman?”
“Last night,” she says, her voice huskier than it was before. “Multiple times.”
The memory of just how ungentlemanly I was hits hard, sending scandalous images flashing on my mental screen. Her hands in my hair, her legs around my waist, the sounds she made when I had my mouth between her legs, devouring that gorgeous fanny of hers…
Before I fully regain control, the curtain opens again, revealing dress number two, a safe navy number that lands just below the knee.
It’s modest. Adequate. Completely forgettable.
But the way it molds to her backside is enough to ensure I’m still a little hard when I murmur, “Good enough, but try number three. Let’s see if we can find something a bit more fun. If not, we’ll come back to this one and be on our way.”
“Okay.” She holds my gaze a beat longer than necessary, making me suspect she feels it, too.
The electricity sizzling in the air between us…
As she disappears behind the curtain again, I silently talk my cock down from his ridiculous state, before asking, “Speaking of future plans, would you be up for an excursion Thursday afternoon? I thought we could do a museum trip tomorrow, to prove how snoringly boring we are, but I’d like to show you some London holiday fun, too. ”
“Sounds good,” she says. “I have most afternoons free. I scheduled all my meetings early in the day, so I’d have time to explore the city before it got dark. What did you have in mind?”
“Let me surprise you,” I say. “It’ll be easier to fake delight for the cameras if you don’t have to fake it. And you’ll be delighted, I promise, even as the gossip hounds grow increasingly bored by how banal we are.”
“Okay.” She pauses before adding in a more anxious tone, “But what if they don’t get bored? Even after I fly home? What if being on different continents isn’t enough to make them stop sniffing around?”
The question hangs in the air, and it isn’t hard to understand the worry beneath it—what if this follows her home?
What if it affects her business in New York?
“Then we’ll issue a respectful statement in March or April,” I say, finding the thought strangely sad. “The distance was too difficult, but we remain the best of friends, wish each other well, et cetera. The standard high-profile breakup script. Very dignified, very final.”
“All right. So, I guess you should arrange to see me off on the 5th?”
“Of course,” I assure her. “I’ll drive you to the airport myself.
We’ll stage a romantic goodbye for any lingering photographers, complete with longing looks, a passionate kiss, and some sniffling on my part.
” I glance at my watch. “How’s it going in there, Darling?
We’re down to eight minutes to pay and zoom out the door. ”
“I know! Sorry. I’m almost ready! The zipper’s a little tricky on this one.”
The sound of her buzzing zipper—the same sound from last night when I buzzed her out of her skirt—threatens to hit me below the belt all over again.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, reminding myself that I’m the one who suggested this arrangement. I have no one to blame but myself for this zipper-induced torture.
The curtain opens one more time, and my jaw hits the floor.
The deep emerald dress skims her curves like water, hitting near the middle of her shins, the modest length somehow making it even sexier.
The neckline is appropriate for a charity luncheon, but showcases the elegant line of her throat.
Her shoulders are bare except for small cap sleeves, and the color makes her cheeks pink and her hair glow like copper in firelight.
Damn…
She’s breathtaking.
I’ve seen Emily in coffee-stained business casual (quite fetching despite the smell) and nothing at all (perfection), but this…
This is something else entirely.
Suddenly, the madwoman who crash-landed in my life last night looks like a society darling, capable of holding her own at any upper-crust event. She’s poised, elegant, exactly the type of woman my mother’s been after me to find.
And if my mother and grandmother join forces to push this agenda?
Well, I might be disowned if I fail to seal the deal.
“What do you think? I thought it was perfect, but…” Emily cocks her head, a frown line forming between her brows. “I liked that the green complemented your tie, but…maybe it’s too much?”
I still can’t speak.
My brain appears to have short-circuited somewhere between realizing just how beautiful she is and how dangerous she is.
Maybe this isn’t such a brilliant plan, after all…
I’m seriously in for a world of pain if my nearest and dearest form an attachment, and then I appear to have let this lovely girl slip through my fingers.
Unlike many noble families, they won’t care that she’s American.
They’ll just care that she made me feel free to be my truest self, and that I didn’t appear to treasure that as much as I should have.
I’ll have to take the blame for the end of the relationship, after all, it’s the only way to protect Em from further cyber harassment.
Yes, mistakes may have been made, but…it’s too late to turn back now.
Forcing a smile, I shake my head. “No, it’s not too much. It’s perfect.” Our gazes lock, hold. “You’re perfect, and we should be on our way.”
Like a retail specter eerily attuned to her customers’ vibrations, Claudette suddenly materializes beside me. “Yes, that’s the dress. It’s incredible on you,” she announces, with a definitive nod. “The color is divine, and the cut couldn’t be more flattering.”
“Agreed, we’ll take it,” I say, still having a hard time pulling my gaze from Emily’s. “But as we mentioned, we’re in quite a rush.”
“Of course! Let me just snip the tags, and you’ll be ready to go.” Claudette flutters around Emily, wielding a pair of tiny scissors, before bustling out with practiced efficiency. As she goes, she calls over her shoulder, “I’ll meet you at the register.”
And yes, I do stand there gaping at Emily for nearly another full minute before pulling myself together.
So far, this fake boyfriend nonsense is off to one hell of a start.
“Right, then, do you want to gather your things, and I’ll meet you up front?” I ask as I back away. “I’m sure Claudette will give you a bag for your other clothes. This is my treat, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Emily says, “but I’m happy to pay you back for—”
“Stop,” I cut her off. “What kind of fake boyfriend would I be if I didn’t buy my fake girlfriend a proper ‘meet the parent’ dress?
Speaking of, I should fill you in on the things that irritate Mother.
There are only three cardinal sins in the World of Vivian, the Dowager Viscountess, but commit any of them, and she’ll be cranky. ”
Emily gulps, her eyes going wide. “Shit, Olly, you should have led with that! Now I’m going to be a nervous wreck.”
“Never, you’re gorgeous,” I assure her. “And we’ll have a full five minutes to prepare in the cab.”
“Five minutes!” she squeaks.
“Don’t worry! You’ll be great!” I duck out of the fitting room, congratulating myself on maintaining my composure and keeping my hands to myself.
But how long will I be able to keep up the farce?
I have no idea.
I only know that I’m looking forward to an excuse to perform “pretend affection” for Emily before an audience of my family, friends, and peers far too much….