Chapter 10 #3
This can’t be it. This can’t be how I die! I’m too young to choke to death on Christmas pudding in front of London society and my sexy fake boyfriend, who is now looking like a very worried fake boyfriend.
“Emily?” Oliver’s panicked voice assures me I must look as terrified as I feel. “Emily!”
Suddenly, his arms are around me from behind, hands positioned below my ribs. He lifts me out of my seat and into the air, performing the Heimlich with surprising competence. He heaves me up once, twice, and then—pop!—the object comes flying from my mouth.
I gasp and cough, air flooding back into my lungs as my heart hammers with gratitude. I’m alive! I’m still alive.
And Oliver’s still holding me, his body trembling against my back.
“Christ, Emily, are you alright?”
I pat his arm with what I hope is a reassuring hand. “Yes, fine. Sorry. I was choking.”
“You sure as hell were.” He lowers me to my feet before gently turning me around. Leaning down, he squeezes my shoulders, searching my face with wide, worried eyes. “And now? Is everything all right? Are you—”
“I’m fine,” I say, my cheeks heating. “Just mortified that I almost choked to death and ruined the celebration.”
The table erupts into reassuring murmurs that I “didn’t ruin anything” and “we’re just so glad that you’re all right, dear!”
But it’s Oliver who commands my full attention as he pulls me close, kissing my forehead with a shaky sigh. “Thank God, love. You scared me.”
And for a moment, I feel loved.
I feel like his love, before Agnes pipes up with a laugh, “Well, at least it looks like all the gagging was for a good cause.”
Oliver and I glance over to see Lady Thornfield-Rowe holding up her fork, a slightly cakey ring dangling from the tines. My cheeks start to burn again as I realize that must be what I horked across the table.
Her brown eyes dance as she adds, “Looks like we might be hearing wedding bells again sooner than later, Vivian.”
“Oh, the ring!” The matronly woman in the brown dress, whose name I think is Lady Maybeth, breathes, “Oh, my goodness, you found the wedding ring! Good show, Emily!”
“Thank you?” I say, my voice still a little wheezy as I glance Oliver’s way.
“It’s a holiday tradition,” he explains, looking slightly embarrassed. “Christmas puddings sometimes have treasures baked inside. Coins for wealth, silver wishbones for luck, rings for—”
“Marriage within the year,” Agnes finishes triumphantly. “Looks like you might not be escaping London so easily, Ms. Darling. So, let’s hope the press goes a little easier on you from here on out.”
“Whatever do you mean, Agnes?” Vivian asks, sounding so genuinely confused, it’s clear that she hasn’t seen the pictures.
But judging from the range of expressions at the table—horrified, amused, knowing, second-hand-embarrassed, and even more amused—she’s the only one who hasn’t.
Soon, they’re all staring at us, waiting to see how we’re going to explain ourselves to Olly’s mother, and my cheeks feel like they’ve been set on fire.
Thankfully, Oliver recovers more quickly than I do, offering in a placating tone, “We’ll discuss that later, Mother. I should get Emily outside. She still looks pale. I think a walk in the winter air would do her good.”
I nod quickly. “Yes, thank you, Olly. It would. It really would.”
“Most welcome, but no need to thank me, darling. Your health is my top priority, today and every day,” Oliver says, helping me to my feet. His arm stays firmly around my waist as he addresses the table. “If you’ll excuse us?”
“Of course, dear.” Vivian still looks concerned, but willing to let the moment pass. For now. “But please call me later. I want to know you’re both all right.”
“Of course, Mother,” Oliver says.
“And don’t forget this,” Agnes pipes up as we turn to go.
She holds out the silver ring, now sitting in the center of a crisp dessert napkin. “A souvenir of your holiday,” she says with a smirk.
“Thank you,” I say, collecting the napkin with shaking fingers.
Oliver shoves it into his pant pocket, and we finally make our escape, hustling through the room with a smattering of applause rising in our wake.
Looks like just about everyone saw Oliver’s heroic efforts to help me cough up my pudding.
“Quick thinking, lad,” a male voice calls out. “Good work.”
“And so romantic,” a quivery female voice adds.
“Yes,” another agrees, “such a lucky girl!”
I remind myself that I am lucky and grateful to be alive, even though I’m currently so mortified that I have to make a concerted effort not to sprint for the door.
But by the time we visit the coat check, retrieve our things, and make our way onto the street, my cheeks are nearly back to their normal temperature. The cold December air helps, and I gulp it gratefully as Oliver and I head down the stairs.
“Well, that was terrifying,” I say, clinging to the stone railing. “But honestly? Not as bad as I expected.”
“Agreed.” Oliver keeps a steadying hand parked at the small of my back that I appreciate. “I mean, you almost died, but you didn’t. I’d call that a win any day.”
“Agreed.” I laugh. “And the speeches were great.”
“Nearly as good as the Christmas pudding,” he quips, making me giggle again.
At the base of the stairs, I turn to face him, chest filling with a mixture of happiness, relief, and a tightness I can’t fully explain. All I know for sure is that I’m glad Oliver was there when I was in trouble, and I’m just as glad that he’s here now, when I’m not.
“What?” He reaches up, brushing a wayward lock of hair from my forehead. “What’s going through that busy head of yours, Red? A list of all the reasons British holiday traditions are hazardous to your health?”
Before I can confess that I like British holiday traditions nearly as much as I’m starting to like him, my phone buzzes.
Then buzzes again.
And again.
“Uh oh,” I mutter, stomach dropping as I pull it from my purse. “Maya never texts more than once unless it’s something really…”
The words shrivel and die in my mouth as I scan the list of notifications.
These aren’t texts from Maya. They’re Google alerts from various socials. News feeds. And a British tabloid site promising a “scandalous new scoop.”
Looks like a fresh batch of mortifying photos just hit the internet…
“Featherswallow Heir Saves Choking American” is the kindest headline.
The others focus on how repulsive I look—feet dangling, face red, arms flailing as I convulse mid-retch.
But the worst one, the one that makes me groan aloud, is a shot of the exact moment the ring flew out of my mouth. My eyes are bulging, my mouth is open in an O of surprise, and Oliver’s arms are so tight around me, my breasts seem to be attempting to launch themselves out onto the table, as well.
The caption reads: “Proposal or attempted murder? Featherswallow has some explaining to do…”
“Oh no, Olly,” I moan, as I turn the screen to face him.
Oliver takes one look at the photo and bursts out laughing. Not a polite chuckle, either, but a full-bodied guffaw that makes his eyes crinkle at the edges.
“It’s not funny!” I protest, but his laughter is infectious. “They’re accusing you of attempted murder! And I look like a hideous green sausage monster.”
“You look like a gorgeous woman who’s still alive after being rudely attacked by holiday pudding,” he corrects, still grinning. “The rest is just noise, though I’m afraid our plan to be boring isn’t off to the best start.”
“You think?” I ask dryly, as I scroll through more headlines. “Here’s a great one—American spits on British Tradition. They make it sound like I did it on purpose.” I shift my narrowed gaze to his. “When really it was all your fault.”
His eyes go wide as he presses a hand to his chest. “Me? How so?”
“You put your hand on my thigh,” I say, remembering how it all started now. “You fondled me under the table, which made me pull in a breath, which made me suck a Christmas pudding toy into my throat!”
His lips twist, but he has the grace to look apologetic as he says, “Well, now, Emily, I was simply performing the part of the besotted boyfriend as promised. You can hardly blame me for that.”
“Can’t I?” I ask, arching a brow.
But I’m not about to tell him to keep his hands to himself from now on. A part of me likes the thought of his hands on me far too much.
Which is a problem. Nearly as much of a problem as the way my chest went tight during Edward’s speech, highlighting his brother’s fantastic heart.
It does seem to be fantastic, but it isn’t mine, and it never will be.
As wonderful as Olly is, we would never last. We’re from two different worlds, and I can’t handle this level of scrutiny from the press. It’s already making me twitchy, and we’re less than twenty-four hours into this mess.
So, I force myself to take a step back and banish the flirtation from my tone as I ask, “So, where to next? I need a quiet place to call my Fletchers’ rep and explain myself.
” I sigh. “Or attempt to explain myself. What do you think? Do fresh pictures and rumors that you tried to kill me with pudding make things less scandalous or more scandalous?”
“Less scandalous, for sure,” Oliver says with an unconcerned scoff.
“You were at a luncheon with my mother when the attempted murder went down. That’s the opposite of scandalous.
And there are just as many headlines claiming I was trying to propose as there are accusing me of plotting your demise.
Your contact will be confused by the warring reports and desperate for the real story.
You’ll give him the scoop, he’ll feel important, and you’ll be in the clear. ”
He takes my arm, threading it through his as he starts down the sidewalk. “Then, we’ll spend the rest of the evening safely tucked away in my apartment, eating curry takeout and prepping you to shine at your meeting with Belinda on Thursday.”
I smile up at him. “Sounds like a great night.”
“To my place, then?” he asks. “And I’ll have a courier fetch your things from the hotel?”
I nod. “To your place.”
Curry, takeout, and a night at Oliver’s flat.
Totally innocent. Utterly safe.
Except for the tiny, inconvenient fact that I’m catching feelings for my fake boyfriend…