Chapter 2
EVIE
I find myself staring into the most striking eyes I have ever seen. They’re too vivid to be blue—that they seem violet can only be a trick of the light. Or maybe it’s the frame of the thickest, sootiest lashes I’ve ever seen on a man.
“Are those extensions?” I tighten my grip on what I realize are his lapels.
He looks like the kind of man who takes care of himself. Feels like it, too, thanks to the broad chest I’m currently pressed against. But I’m going to take that wintry, unimpressed twist of his lips as no .
“Wow, real? Mother Nature sure is a joker.” Taking a deep breath, I refocus. “I’m sorry for bursting in on you like this—”
“Quite literally.”
“—but this is an emergency.”
“And this isn’t an ambulance.” His voice is deep and refined and feels like the brush of velvet along my spine. “It also isn’t a wedding car.”
“I’m not going to a wedding,” I snap, my damsel-in-distress act slipping. I glance out of the rear window and spot Mitchell on the sidewalk, scanning the spaces between the idling cars. My gaze narrows. He should be on his knees thanking God for tinted windows because I won’t be forced to strangle him with my veil.
“Contrary to appearances, you mean?”
“What?” I swipe the gauzy lace out of my face, and when I turn back, I find we’re almost nose to nose.
“Did you run off with the contents of the collection plate?” His brow spikes like an elegant question mark.
“There isn’t a collection at a wedding.” I frown, pulling back and pressing up onto one palm to put a little distance between us. I shouldn’t notice the fine fabric of his pants or the thick muscle of his thigh flexing under them.
Get it together, Evie. The man is wearing a three-piece suit, for gosh sake.
“There is usually a bride.”
As the pretty man’s gaze flicks over me, I decide pretty is doing him a disservice. His face must be a photographer’s delight, all broad strokes and sharp angles, square jawed and with those supermodel cheekbones. His dark hair is glossy and thick, and his eyes are the most unlikely shade of ... whatever that is.
“I might be going to a party,” I object. “A princess party.”
“Except you’re wearing a veil, not a crown, and you’re clearly not six years old. You’re either running to or from a wedding.” His eyes skate over me. “Or running from someone at a wedding.”
Would it be too much to hope that he might be rich and sympathetic? Not traits that often go together, but what choice do I have?
“Yes, okay. I’m running away from a hall of guests and a cheating groom.” I slide my fingers across his chest to straighten his abused lapel, not ready to see pity in his expression. Gosh, his torso seems almost geometric. I wonder if there’s a red S under here, except that whole eyebrow thing he does makes him look more like a villain. “Please, I just need a ride. Anywhere.” My fingers halt as I come back to myself, realizing it might seem like I’m feeling him up.
A car nearby sounds its horn, and the traffic begins to creep forward, thank God. The knot in my stomach begins to loosen, until his arm moves behind me. The buttery leather seats barely murmur as he settles me against his side, his fingers folding around my shoulder to hold me close. My heart creeps up my throat as he reaches for the door, and the locks click as they engage.
This could be why children are warned not to get into strangers’ cars.
“Ted, we must get the locks examined.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver replies.
“Meanwhile, something tells me that would be your groom.”
“What?”
“Evie!”
My body jolts, my unease spiking at Mitchell’s voice. The stranger’s fingers tighten as I turn, finding the window open and that shithead staring at me from a gap in the traffic.
“Evie, please!” His eyes flick to the man beside me, and his expression turns sour. “What the fuck is he doing here?”
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter at the accusation in his tone. He’s got some nerve after what he’s put me through today.
My companion’s arm tightens, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Pure chance, Atherton. A pleasant quirk of fate. But I see you’re still undertaking your life’s work to screw over everyone around you.”
“You two know each other?” My head whips around as the car begins to move again. Tires squeal, and my heart shoots into my throat. I glance back just in time to see Mitch slam his palms onto the hood of a black cab.
“Pity.” The stranger slants me a look. “Don’t you think?”
“That he wasn’t hit?”
“You’d rather run him over yourself?” When I bite my tongue from answering yes , he gives a graceful shrug. “Violence. It might not be the answer, yet it doesn’t stop certain individuals from begging the question.”
“Believe me, I know.”
“Babe, I’m sorry.” Mitch appears at the window, his fingers curled around the glass.
“Sorry you got caught, more like.”
“Please don’t do this.” His throat bobs with emotion.
“You did this, not me. You. And don’t you ever call me babe again.” Balling my fists in my lap, I swing away. I doubt I could get a good shot from this angle, anyway.
“Evie, we need to talk about this. I know I’ve hurt you—that you deserve better.”
I make a derisive noise. I so want to punch him in the face. Why isn’t this car moving? The traffic in London is the absolute worst! As horns honk, and angry Londoners yell their displeasure, I glance out the window and realize we’re not crawling because of the traffic—we’re causing it.
“What we have is too good to throw away. Just give me five minutes,” Mitch pleads. “Let me explain.”
“I got all the explanation I needed this morning in fifty-two anonymous texts.” My voice sounds supremely cool, yet inside, my blood is boiling. Why won’t this stupid car just move?
“Please.”
“Go fuck yourself.” Making a scene and using vulgar language. My mother would be so proud.
The stranger’s fingers tighten again as though in reassurance. “Still against death by cabbie?”
“This has nothing to do with you, Deubel,” Mitchell grates out.
“And yet, here sits your fiancée.”
“Ex,” I correct. “Can we please go?” This time, my distress is not an act.
He turns to the driver. “Ted, we’re done here.”
And with that, Mitchell’s hands are forced to let go as the car speeds up.
“Only I would climb into the car of someone who knows Mitch,” I mutter, watching as the city passes by the window. Buildings and figures blur, the afternoon sunshine a haze that glints from store windows.
“For a city of nine million people, London often feels like a small town.”
I glance up and study his almost-perfect profile. He’s a little older than I first imagined, and something tells me those lines at the corners of his eyes weren’t made by a life of laughter.
He shifts slightly in his seat, the movement stirring up the subtle scent of a cologne that’s all spice and no sugar. It ignites a highly inappropriate tingle between my legs, which is unfortunate because I know men like him. They’re all three-piece suit and no substance, like a gift basket prettily wrapped to disguise disappointing contents. I bet his name is double barreled, or maybe he’s the fourth in his line to use it. His wealth is probably inherited, which is just another way of saying he’s entitled, and when it comes to giving head, I’ll bet he doesn’t reciprocate.
Yet those aren’t the connections my brain makes as I stare at him. He smells nice, which makes me notice how smooth his cheeks are. It might be wrong to imagine him draped in nothing but a towel, his skin shower slick, but it’s better than replaying my clusterfuck of a day. Which is (thanks, brain) exactly what my mind does as it slides to the image of Mitch standing at the altar. I’d never seen him in a suit. Rugged boots, jeans, and a perma-cocky grin were more his thing. Whatever. He’s still gift-wrapped dog poop.
Do I just have terrible judgment when it comes to men? My gaze flicks over the man next to me, and I stifle a sigh. Can’t fault my taste.
“It’s better that I do know him.”
I startle as I find the man looking down at me. “I’d prefer you didn’t.” Just as I’d prefer to erase the last two-plus years from my brain.
“But then you’d still be standing on the pavement, arguing with him.”
“What? You’re only helping me because you don’t like him?”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend?” The corner of his mouth tips sardonically.
“What happened to good old-fashioned chivalry?”
“Romeo or the villain. Those are my only choices?”
He’s sure as heck not Superman, though he does remind me of Henry Cavill playing the villain in whatever movie that was. “How about plain-old human kindness?”
“Try putting yourself in my position,” he says, adjusting the knife-sharp pleat in his pants. “What would you do if a stranger in a wedding dress hijacked your car?”
“Hardly hijacked—”
“Then praised your eyelashes.”
“That was a genuine compliment!” It might’ve been worse, given I almost landed in his lap. Is that a gun in your pocket or were you just blessed in that department? Not that I should be embarrassed. Or imagining him seminaked. Again. Dear amygdala, have you gone offline today? “So it probably sounded a little random, but trust a man not to understand.”
“I understand well enough why you’d leave Mitchell Atherton at the altar.” As he stares down at me, I realize two things.
One: He hasn’t moved his arm.
Two: I don’t mind one bit.
Who would’ve guessed at the surprises on my wedding bingo card? A cheating groom, a slight mental break, the loss of my gorgeous shoes, and this man, my reluctant hero. Maybe my night of hot revenge sex?
“I appreciate your honesty, if not your reasoning,” I begin. “Obviously, there hasn’t been much of that in my life lately. But I promise, I’m not deranged. Though I’m not sure my guests would agree.” Guests, I think, plucking at a seed pearl in my lap. Faces I barely recognized.
“Weddings are boringly predictable, I find. So full of empty promises.”
“Love, fidelity, and other lies,” I add, ignoring the impulse to rub the sudden ache in my chest.
“I’m sure your guests will say it’s the most entertaining ceremony they’ve ever attended.”
My stomach turns uneasily. “I guess if they’re talking about me, they’re leaving some other unfortunate alone.” Despite my blasé tone, it’s not a position I relish.
“If they’re talking about you,” he says, suddenly lifting my chin, “it’s because they aren’t half as interesting.”
“I’m not sure about that.” I find myself blinking into those mesmerizing eyes. “But thank you. For not leaving me on the sidewalk, at least.”
“It was my pleasure.” I feel the loss of his fingers immediately. “Now that we’ve established you’re not bound for a lunatic asylum, where would you like to go?”
“You can drop me off the end of the earth,” I whisper at the sinking realization that I hadn’t planned this far ahead. Not just for what happened earlier, but also for my original expectation—my so-called happily ever after.
Had I anticipated something like this?
I loved being with Mitch, but when I accepted his proposal—a cute but unoriginal giant cookie iced with the words Marry me? on Valentine’s Day—I knew in my heart things had already started to change. I told myself it wasn’t that he was emotionally uninvested but that he just wasn’t the type to talk about his feelings. Now I see he just didn’t have any.
As for me, I’m sorry to find my mother was right. I mean, she was way off about a lot of things, but I think I wanted this wedding more than I should have. I wanted to be right, maybe more than I wanted to be with him. Because, look at me. I’m so angry right now, and not even a little heartsick!
“Oh, my gosh,” I whisper, sliding my hands to my cheeks. “I’m a frog. A frickin’ frog.” It’s an unnerving realization because, like the proverbial frog, I’ve been stewing in a pot of my own wedding apathy for months.
Unaware of this—the ickiest of eureka moments—my reluctant hero gives my shoulder a friendly shake. “I think you mean you’ve been kissing one. I haven’t heard you ribbit once.”
I laugh and force back a prickle of tears. Kindness might be what I need, but it’s also what I can’t afford.
“You do realize you’ve just saved yourself years of trouble? Isn’t it better to find out what kind of man he is before the wedding?”
“It would’ve been even better to have found out last week before I gave up my lease and moved into his apartment.”
“Ah.”
“Try arghhh !” As the enormity of my situation hits me, I fall forward and bury my face into my hands. I don’t love him—maybe I never loved him—but I deserve better than this. “Pockets! Why the hell didn’t I choose a dress with pockets?”
“Do you need a handkerchief?”
I spring up again, his eyebrows joining me in the motion. “I’m not going to cry over that asshole! If I had pockets, I would’ve filled them with rocks. Then when I threw my vows at him, I would’ve hurt more than his pride!”
Okay, so maybe I’m not quite done with anger yet.
“Rocks aren’t as final as vehicular manslaughter.”
“Do you think I’d get away with it?” I only half joke.
“With a good lawyer we could make it look like an accident.”
We. It feels good not to be alone, no matter how temporary. “What did Mitchell do to you?”
“A more interesting question is, How did you throw your vows at him?”
“I found out he was cheating before the ceremony,” I murmur, ignoring the hot twist in my stomach. “Someone sent me screenshots of some very explicit text message exchanges. So I printed them out, and I read them at the altar instead of my vows.” I shrug. “It felt kind of fitting. I might also have balled up the printouts and thrown them at his head.”
“Ah, the rocks,” he adds, trying to curtail his smile. “What I would’ve given to have seen his face.”
“I probably shouldn’t have done it. That’s not remorse, by the way. Except for my shortsightedness.”
“It sounds to me like something you needed to do.”
As a glow rises through me, I tell myself it’s the remains of my righteous indignation rather than about the way he’s looking at me. “You’re right, and I do feel kind of vindicated. If I’d called off the wedding before the ceremony, it would’ve saved us both the embarrassment, but then he would’ve gotten off scot-free.”
“Not completely,” he adds softly. “In either circumstance, he loses you.”
“He should’ve thought about that before he screwed my maid of honor,” I answer, the glow taking on a heated edge.
“A double betrayal.”
“More like a betrayal and a half. She was a stand-in, but I thought she was my friend.” My brow creases as I process the truth in this. “Not an old friend, but I guess it now makes sense why that asshole was so keen on us hanging out.”
I met Mitch on vacation two years ago. Though, more accurately, I was working and traveling. I’d been living that way almost since graduating from college. We’d been doing the long-distance thing when he proposed, and I’d loved London instantly. I knew no one in the city but Riley and was so glad Mitch was happy to share his friends.
I just didn’t know how far the sharing went.
“My maid of honor was more my male of honor. Riley is my oldest friend, but he broke his leg last week in a nasty rock-climbing accident in France. If he had been here ...” At least it wouldn’t have been him Mitch was fucking. “You know, it was only when I stepped out into the aisle that I noticed how small our wedding was. How few of the guests were my real friends. That’s weird, right?” I don’t wait for his response, especially as it might include pushing me out of a moving car. “I told myself it was because it was such short notice—my visa conditions meant we had to be married quickly.” Within six months. “That I couldn’t expect my real friends to travel. But the truth is, I never invited them. I half assed my own wedding. Can you believe that?”
“Hindsight is a wonderful thing,” he murmurs.
“I guess the silver lining is there were less people to witness the travesty.” I blow out an unsteady breath. “I wish Riley was here.”
“What would he do for you?”
“Get me drunk. Let me vent. Help me plot Mitch’s death.” The enormity of my situation hits me in a heavy wave. “Be here for me, because, right now, I don’t have ...” Anyone to turn to. “... my phone or my wallet or anywhere to go. I don’t even have shoes!” My eyes sting as I hold out my feet and stare down at pink painted toes sheathed in grubby silk stockings. “All I have is this damn dress and veil, and a thousand dollars’ worth of lingerie!” I cry, throwing up my hands. Then I cringe. Boy, do I cringe. “Forget I said that.”
“I don’t think I will.”
“Try. Please.”
“You’ve already established I’m not chivalrous. However, if you’d like to know if you overpaid, I’d happily offer my opinion.”
“Good try,” I say with a soft chuckle. “You know, contrary to popular opinion, women don’t buy underwear to please men.”
“Not even for their wedding night?”
“You’re still not looking.”
“My offer stands. Meanwhile, perhaps I can stand in for your best friend.”
“How do you mean?” I turn to face him.
“I could do what Riley would do for you.”
“I think I’ve inconvenienced you enough.” I’m desperate, not a charity case. Or maybe what I am is a desperate charity case. “You said yourself, you would’ve left me on the sidewalk five minutes ago.”
“That was before we were friends.” His tone suddenly turns velvety.
“Friends.” I sound less convinced. “Well, Riley would supply alcohol.”
“We’ll toast to your close escape.”
“And hold my hair when I vomit.”
“I think I might make a more responsible friend than Riley,” he answers with another wintry twist of his lips.
“How can we be friends when I don’t even know your name?”
“Oliver Deubel.” He holds out his hand.
“The fourth?” I blurt out.
“There’s only one of me.”
“Right. Good. Evelyn Fairfax. Evie to my friends.”
“Also to your ex-fiancé.” His thumb slides over my knuckle, and I force back a shiver. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Evelyn.” Something in his delivery seems to dare me to protest, but I can’t muster a retort, his gaze licking at my insides like a flame. “I should probably warn you, I make a terrible friend.”