Chapter 12 #2
“They could,” she agrees, “but I seriously doubt they will, not if we agree to pay a penalty fee and forfeit the deposit. And yeah, that would hurt, but it wouldn’t break us.
Then, we go back to meeting high-profile clients over lunch for a while, until our bottom line recovers.
People love lunch, and buying lunch is a lot cheaper than a lease on an office space in DUMBO. ”
I nod, knowing she’s right and…hating it at the same time. “It feels like failure, though, doesn’t it? A little?”
“It does, but it would be a bigger failure to sacrifice what’s left of our twenties to the Gods of Capitalism.” She pauses before adding in a more pointed voice, “Or miss out on the guy of our dreams because we’re too busy working ourselves to the bone just to keep our heads above water.”
I exhale another shaky breath. “Yeah.” I swallow hard before confessing in a smaller voice, “But I’m still scared.”
“Of course, you are. If this goes hideously awry, it’s going awry with the entire world watching.
The paparazzi will probably snap pictures of you crying at the airport on your way home after the breakup.
And of you stress-eating an entire pizza in The Village.
And of you having a bad hair day in Central Park, while Oliver’s already moved on with the Princess of Peru or whatever. ”
I sit up, frowning at the darkened window again. “Thanks for the visuals, friend. Now, I’m considering making a break for the elevator right now. Or just hurling myself out the window and being done with it.”
She has the nerve to laugh, the wretched woman. “Sorry. But I’m here to keep it real. That’s why you called me.”
“It is,” I mumble as I stress chew my bottom lip. “You’re right.”
“But it could also end in more pictures like at the carousel and the ice-skating rink,” she adds in a softer voice. “In smiles and kisses and fun and two people being very happy together.”
I release my lip and swallow. Hard. “Yeah. It could, I think. It really could.”
“So, get out there and tell your fake boyfriend you don’t want to fake it anymore,” she says. “I’ve got to go. The grind calls. Talk soon. You’ve got this, Em. I know you do.”
“Thanks,” I whisper as we end the call.
After, I sit staring at my reflection again as my thoughts race. Then, I launch into list-making mode.
Because of course, I do.
Reasons Why Telling Olly
I Want to be his Real Girlfriend
is Still a Bad Idea
1. We still live on different continents (3,458 miles apart, give or take a mile, and who knows how far in kilometers).
2. He’s from a noble family, has an obscene amount of money, a successful career, looks effortlessly chic in designer duds, and once dated a supermodel.
3. I’m from New Jersey, from a family that couldn’t afford a beach club membership, have exactly four thousand, three hundred, and six dollars in my checking account, my business is in major struggle mode, and I look effortlessly uninspiring in off-the-rack suits, even my mother has hinted are too modest. I think in miles and pounds and inches and will likely never successfully measure anything outside the United States.
And cooking in Celsius? Forget about it.
I’ve already nearly set his flat on fire trying to broil cheese on my toast at the wrong degree.
4. I hate having my picture taken, even when I know it’s being taken, let alone a picture sneak attack. This paparazzi thing is already getting seriously old. Is that the kind of thing I could get used to dealing with for months? Years? Maybe even longer?
5. I still don’t understand how serious this “fifth in line to the throne” thing is. I mean, I get that the chances of him becoming king are slim to none, but they aren’t zero. And that means—should this really be my shot at happily ever after—there would also be a non-zero chance of me becoming…
“The Queen of Fucking England,” I mutter aloud with a very undignified, unqueenly snort.
Yeah. That’s never going to happen. Never.
I’m pretty sure someone would assassinate me first. Half the people in the U.K. don’t like the monarchy much already, let alone if there was suddenly a lower-middle-class American from a crusty part of New Jersey on the throne.
Of course, it’s much more likely that we’ll never make it that far, that Olly will realize he’s made a horrible mistake getting involved with a hot mess American and move on.
Even if the tabloids do seem to think that his mess and mine are a match made in heaven…
A soft knock interrupts my stress spiral.
“Ready to go, darling Darling? Time, tide, and my grandmother tolerate tardiness from no man. Or woman.” Oliver’s voice rumbles through the door, instantly making my thighs tingle.
I’m not sure if this is just a crush or something more serious, but it’s certainly lust.
I’m already dying to see him in whatever sexy suit he’s wearing tonight.
“Yes, just a second,” I say as I stand. “Come in, I just need to put on my heels, and I’ll be—” I cut off with another unladylike snort that becomes a full-throated chortle as Oliver steps into the room, doing a slow spin, the better for me to take in the full glory of his outfit.
“Oh my God, Featherswallow. What in the Father Christmas is that?”
“This is the bet I lost with my grandmother at last year’s party,” he says. “We’d both been drinking. But I was certain she was the more inebriated party, and I would handily beat her at snooker. But alas…” He glances down at the most hideously festive Christmas sweater I’ve ever seen in my life.
And I grew up in New Jersey, so I’ve seen some shit when it comes to tacky.
But this…
It’s aggressively red, like blood from a fresh, neon wound, with a massive gingerbread man across the chest. A gingerbread man who’s clearly going through something, judging by the googly eyes pointing in two wildly different directions.
“Did it have a stroke?” I ask, barely suppressing another laugh as he flicks the bells forming a belt across the man’s middle.
“Almost certainly,” he says. “And I’m pretty sure its icing is infected with something. But it lights up and glows in the dark, so…there’s that.”
He presses a button beneath his armpit, and the gingerbread’s icing begins to throb bright green, sending me into another fit of giggles. “Oh my God,” I gasp. “This is worse than the reindeer sweater in Bridget Jones. You’re totally Mark Darcy.”
“And you’re Bridget in a naughty little skirt,” he says, his lips pushing into a pout as he glances at my lower half.
“Are you sure you won’t let me buy you a naughty little skirt on the way?
I’m sure something’s still open.” He motions toward me.
“I mean, you’re gorgeous, but far too classy for the insanity to which you shall soon be subjected.
I’m afraid someone will spill beer on you, and I’ll never forgive myself for letting you ruin that perfect dress. ”
I arch a dubious brow, ignoring the way my cheeks heat at the “gorgeous” part of that statement. “I seriously doubt someone’s going to spill beer on me, Olly. It’s a holiday party at a Dowager Viscountess’s mansion, not a kegger at a frat house.”
He grunts. “You’re right, it’s more likely to be Christmas punch than beer. But I’d still feel better if you were wearing a hard-to-stain little black dress.” His voice becomes a wicked purr as he adds, “A very little black dress.”
“There he is,” I murmur, close to purring myself. “There’s the bad man I met at the pub. I wondered where he’d gotten off to.”
“He’s been being a good fake boyfriend,” Oliver murmurs, lifting a hand into the air. “And I solemnly swear, he’ll still be a good fake boyfriend tonight. No matter how sexy you look with your smudgy eye makeup and berry-stained lips. Shall we?”
But maybe I don’t want you to be good, Olly, I think as I step into my heels and take his offered arm.
Aloud, I say, “We shall.”
But all the way down the elevator to the ground floor, all I can think about is how naughty Olly and I were in an elevator the last time we had a few beers.
And how much I want to be naughty with him again…