Chapter 4
EVIE
“Thank you.” There’s an undeniable zing of electricity between our fingers as I hand him back his phone.
“Did it help?” Cool blue eyes match his tone, but I know he noticed as he slides his phone back into his pocket, keeping his gaze deliberately from mine.
“Yes. Riley replied.” I might not remember anyone’s phone number, but I’ve had the same email address and password since I was thirteen. “The spare key will be under the planter by the front door tomorrow morning. I’m just sorry I couldn’t arrange it before.” His roommate, Lori, is away for the weekend. Just as well, as she doesn’t like me. It also means I’ll get to raid her closet. Miss Havisham is not a look to cultivate.
“It’s not a problem—the hotel is nearby.” A gentle breeze ruffles Oliver’s hair, the summer sun still hanging in the evening sky, shimmering through the leaves to make a lacy pattern on his jacket. His lips look too soft for that face of chiseled granite. Another of Mother Nature’s jokes, I guess. I’ll make him so good looking, he seems untouchable, but I’ll give him lips made for kissing. Licking. Biting.
What is going on in my head today? Champagne usually gives me a headache, not make me desperately horny.
“Do people really do that?”
“Um.” I roll my lips inward, not sure of the answer. I saw the shapes his pretty mouth made, but that was the limit of my attention. Hot. Horny. Keys. Plant pot? Ah! “Sure.” I paste on a bright smile. “You’ve never done that?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“You sure you’re a property developer?” I give my head a slow shake. “I thought it was standard practice to leave the contractor a key under a pot or a doormat.”
“Perhaps London is different than Connecticut.”
They sure breed the men a little differently here. Maybe the weather makes for broodier types. “Well, Riley better find a way, or I’ll be sleeping on the streets from tomorrow.” Another strange entry on my wedding bingo card. Honeymooning in the Maldives or sleeping in the doorway of Zara?
“I’m sure it won’t come to that.”
“Not once I get my purse back.” My credit cards, my phone, my clothes. My mental list goes on. Pack my bags. Face him who shall not be named. Avoid going to jail for murder.
“Would you like some help?”
“With Mitchell?” I shake my head. Maybe he’d like to dig the hole. “No, thank you.” My next undignified performance will happen without an audience.
“He seemed . . . very insistent.”
“Probably his ego,” I add briskly. “I’m not a violent woman, but I’ve found I can be inspired to violence.”
“Oh, I’m very sure you can take care of yourself.”
I like that he said so, whether he means it or not.
“Well, I appreciate you letting me take advantage of our new friendship.” I’d appreciate it if you let me take advantage of your body too.
Considering the many things I have to worry about, flirting with Oliver should not be at the top of my list. It’s fun though. The man is very good at it.
“A friend in need,” he answers prosaically.
“Is a pain in the ass indeed!”
He laughs, throwing back his head to expose the strong line of his throat and the masculine rise of his Adam’s apple. A ripple of yes please! washes through me.
“What?”
I give my head a tiny shake in the face of his curious expression. “Huh?”
“You’re looking at me strangely.”
Try thirstily, friend. Is it him? Is it the champagne? Is it because I don’t want yesterday’s wax to go to waste? I am currently as smooth as a dolphin from the brows down, and it was not a joyous experience.
“I was just thinking.” Lusting. Wondering if you’re my gift from the universe. I deserve one, don’t I? “Oh, ow!” I step on a stone—stupid me, I’d been so careful all this way not to—then stumble over the hem of my dress. I don’t fall though, as Oliver reaches out to grasp my arm.
“You should’ve eaten more.” Concern pinches his brows as he pulls me against him, brushing my hair from my face.
“It was a stone,” I protest laughingly, taking the opportunity to touch him up. I mean, straighten his lapels. “If you add a steak dinner to all that champagne, I might get the wrong idea, friend .”
“And what idea would that be?”
“That I might need to sell a kidney to pay you back.”
He chuckles as the late-setting summer sun crowns his dark head in a halo of bronze. Something shifts inside me, something with heat and substance, the suddenness of it robbing me of my breath. If men can be beautiful, Oliver Deubel is the epitome of the ideal. Tall, dark, and more than handsome, he wears a suit like it’s a lethal weapon, and I am so attracted to him.
Mitchell is lower than a rat for what he’s done, but this isn’t one bit about him. When I look at Oliver, I get this awful yet heavenly twist deep inside. I can almost taste his kisses—anticipate the experience. But if I make a move, would that look like I’m pursuing pity sex? I’d rather Oliver rail me good and hard as a way of getting back at Mitchell. On some level, wouldn’t I be doing the same?
“Eve?”
I find myself blinking heavily. “Sorry, I was miles away.”
“Anywhere nice?” His words end in a provocative curl. “Judging by your expression ...”
“This is just my thinking face.” It’s good you can’t see into my head, because I was imagining how incredible you’d look naked. “Maybe I shouldn’t have had that last glass of champagne.”
“Or you should’ve eaten more,” he says again.
“Like I said, I stood on a stone and tripped over my stupid dress.”
“It isn’t stupid. I’m sure I’m not the first person today to say you look very beautiful.”
My insides suddenly feel like they’re filled with Pop Rocks. I dip my head to hide my delight. Wait—does he think I was fishing for compliments? I wasn’t, but I’m very happy to land them.
“Give a girl a fancy dress.” Lace whispers as I swish the skirt, and his shiny oxfords appear in my line of vision.
“Accept the compliment in the vein it was given.” His voice is soft as his finger finds my chin.
“I never learned how,” I whisper. Compliments make me feel uncomfortable.
“We’ll practice. You’re perfect. Right here in this moment. It’s easy, see?”
Perfect is an ideal I’ve never sought, but my body enjoys its resonance as he cups the side of my neck.
“Now thank me. Say it like you mean it.”
If his compliments resonate, his demands detonate, heat pulsing through me in their wake.
“Thank you,” I whisper, coy suddenly.
“Thanks may be shown as well as spoken.” His thumb is a sweet hint that slides across my lips.
I wrap my fingers in his lapels and rise to my toes, brushing my lips against his. “Thank you, Oliver. For everything.”
“You’re welcome, beautiful Eve.”
“And you really do have the loveliest lashes I’ve ever seen.” I move my hands across his superhero chest to flatten his lapels. Allegedly. “Even if you don’t follow your own rules.”
“I didn’t accept the compliment gracefully, did I?”
“As I recall, you didn’t accept it at all.”
“Lift your head. Look at me.” His words are a purred command, one I find impossible to resist. “Thank you for the compliment, Eve.” He leans in, his husky words a bare breath across my lips. “The accolade just took me by surprise.” The second meeting of our lips is no brush. His kiss is warm and unhurried, but all too soon, he pulls back. “How was that?”
“Nice.” My voice sounds rusty. I lick my tingling lips. Oliver’s eyes darken as he watches me taste his kiss.
“Then I mustn’t have thanked you properly.”
The sounds of the street fall away as our mouths meet again. His body comes up against mine, his tongue licking lushly into me, his fingers quick and clever as they work down my spine. I ball my hand in the back of his shirt, willing it to disintegrate, my hearing reduced to the pulse of my blood as time stands still, and space becomes irrelevant, as—
“Get a bridal suite!” A yell from a passing car. Cackling, distant laughter.
I make to pull away, but the way Oliver cradles the back of my head prevents me. Makes me feel protected.
“A little more inventive than ‘Get a room,’ I guess.” I bite the inside of my lip. Did that sound like a hint?
“Idiots,” he mutters without venom.
“We were kind of going for it.”
He takes my face in his hands, his thumbs gliding across my cheeks. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for hours, no matter how inappropriate the notion.”
“We get to make our own boundaries.”
“And I just straddled mine.”
“So I guess inviting you up for a drink would be a waste of time.” I sound unimpressed and feel like he just poured cold water all over our vibe.
“Beautiful Eve,” he groans. “Please don’t make this any harder.”
Oh, I could. I could make it so much harder. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
His head lifts, his eyes scanning the street behind me. “How can it not, after the day you’ve had? I don’t want to be someone you look back on and regret.”
“Don’t humor me, Oliver.” The early evening is cool, yet my skin burns. “I’m not some damaged damsel in need of protection.”
“Good, because I’m not the hero type.”
“So, if you want me and I want you—”
“It’s the nature of regret,” he says, cutting me off. “It happens after the fact. Haven’t you been through enough today?”
The burst of laughter that spills from my lips sounds like it belongs to someone else. “You don’t have to make excuses.” I pull away until his strong fingers curl around my forearm, his grip firm.
“This isn’t just about you. I want you—I want to fuck you so well, you’ll cry out my name. But I won’t be the instrument of your revenge. If you’re in my bed, you’re there for me alone.”
He might have had the last word, but we’re not done here.
We turn into a street of Georgian town houses, their stuccoed frontages tall, formal, and as white as wedding cake, their window boxes brimming with colorful begonias.
“This is it.” Oliver, my amiable companion, lifts our clasped hands as his pointed finger indicates our destination. A boutique hotel.
Holding hands is okay. Kissing too. But sex is out of the question.
We’ll see.
I’m impulsive, but I’ve never been the type for one-night stands. I’m determined. Obstinate, I guess. I also know I’m not for everyone, but Oliver is into me, and I’m not trying to put a Band-Aid over my horror of a day.
We’re still holding hands, and I’m still pondering how as we approach the entrance, and my pace slows when the thoughts I’ve been trying to arrange manifest themselves into words.
“Hey.”
He turns as I tug on his hand, his expression guarded.
“I just want to say thank you for today. I will pay you back for all this.” I give a vague wave to the hotel. “I also wanted to say what you said earlier about regrets, it cuts both ways. When you walk away this evening, you’ll regret this. You’ll regret me.”
He frowns, reaching to rub his right eyebrow. His answer, when it comes, seems almost reluctant. “Yes, that’s very likely.”
“And when I close the door to my hotel room tonight, I can choose both how I feel and how I want to spend my night. I can ride the roller coaster of the betrayed, tap into all that embarrassment and foolishness and make myself feel sick to my stomach. I might hit the minibar, then cry myself to sleep—choices that are guaranteed to come with regrets.
“But what I’ll never regret is good company. That’s not to say I don’t understand. Today has been tainted by Mitchell for us both. And I’m sorry for that. I’d liked to have met you under different circumstances is what I’m trying to say.”
I don’t wait for his response as I turn away. I’m not done, but I’m not about to announce my intentions in the middle of this leafy London street. Instead, I smile at the doorman as he bids me good evening, and I step inside.
The hotel is much larger than the outside suggests, the interior stylish, moody, and masculine. Vintage chandeliers, parlor palms, and vermilion velvet walls; it’s all very bohemian, Roaring Twenties style.
At the desk, Oliver is greeted by name by a stunning brunette, her winged eyeliner both subtle and perfect.
“Good evening, Mr. Deubel.”
“Natalia, good evening.”
“Your usual suite?” Her gaze darts my way, the split-second glance taking in my dress and my hair. I can’t make out if she’s more perceptive than the multiple Georges or she knows Oliver better than I’d appreciate. I begin to wonder, Have these two ... and if so, What has she got that I haven’t? Apart from perfectly winged liner, I guess.
Maybe the question should be, What have I got that she doesn’t? A white dress, obviously. And a connection to someone he clearly hates.
“That would be wonderful, Natalia.”
“Just for the night,” I interject. As Natalia’s gaze drops to her keyboard, I regret her assumption. And her red cheeks.
“That’s not what I meant,” I mutter, ignoring Oliver’s low chuckle of amusement. I was thinking about how expensive a night here might be. I have a good job and a decent income, but I’m also newly homeless, and God only knows what I’m going to do about my visa. How do you stay in the country on a spousal visa without a spouse? Maybe I can get the clinic to sponsor me, though I’m pretty sure that means I’ll have to go home in the meantime. There must be a way. Nothing is insurmountable if you set your mind to it. Like my man here. He’s totally mountable , given a little time and persuasion.
As Natalia continues to type away, I file all those worries away for Future Evie as I find myself wondering why a man who said he lives in London has a regular hotel suite . For regular assignations? He probably gets more ass than a toilet seat.
“Enjoy your evening.” Natalia’s smile is nothing but professional as she moves a key card wallet across the gleaming desk, but I still can’t help but wonder. Has Natalia experienced Oliver’s kisses? The kind of kisses that make a girl swoon and want things she wouldn’t ordinarily?
Oliver turns, pressing the key into my hand.
“Add this to my tab,” I say, tapping it to his chest.
“There really is no need.” His smile is measured, the space between us deliberate, but his stiff upper lip tasted too good to ignore.
“Friends pay their debts, Oliver, and I really can’t thank you enough—”
“Careful.” Heat pulses through me at his silky delivery.
“Always.”
The glint in his eye seems almost wicked, and we stare at each other for several long, loaded beats.
“You know it’s not because I don’t want you.”
That was not what I hoped he’d say. I don’t answer because I don’t accept his rejection.
“Let me walk you to the lift.”
“Why thank you, kind sir.” I press the backs of my fingers under my chin, my accent turning ridiculous and southern. “Because I surely couldn’t find the elevator on my own.” In for a dollar, in for a dime, I give my lashes an exaggerated flutter.
With a lopsided half smile, he offers me his elbow. “Come along, Scarlett.”
I slant him a confused look. Is Scarlett the usual reason for his hotel suite?
“O’Hara? I thought that was who you were trying to impersonate.”
“You would make a terrible Rhett,” I reply, sliding my arm through his.
“True. I don’t have the ears for it.”
We pass the hotel bar, which looks like the kind of place you’d find red-lipped starlets drinking dirty martinis.
“Looks fancy,” I say. “But do you think I might be overdressed?”
He frowns and looks like he’s about to say something when the universe intervenes and his phone vibrates with a text.
“You should get that,” I say, stepping ahead to the elevators. A group of men stands in front of the doors. One of them slides me a cursory look over his shoulder, then does a double take. And suddenly I have a plan.
“Don’t worry, the hotel isn’t holding a wedding,” I offer with a pleasant smile. “At least, not mine.”
“Sorry?”
“You won’t be kept awake by a cut-rate Céline Dion, I mean.”
“I like a bit of Céline myself.” His eyes follow my fingers as I slip the key to my room into the top of my dress. His mouth kicks up in one corner. Something tells me I’ve captured the attention of the cocky one of the pack.
“You struck me as someone with different tastes.”
Welcome to flirty level one: I might be interested.
“Did I?” He turns to face me, sliding his hands into the pockets of his pants. “You didn’t get married here, then?”
I give a soft laugh. “I didn’t get married at all. I mean, that was the plan, but ...” Cue a hesitant smile and a coy shrug.
Level two: we’ve established I’m single.
“What happened?” His gaze moves over me, taking particular note of where I’ve stashed my key.
“A slight miscalculation,” I say holding my thumb and index finger almost together. “Turns out, he’s been banging someone else.”
Level three: I might just be up for it.
“No fuckin’ way!” His eyes almost fall out of his head as his companions exchange a look, their ears straining to listen in to the conversation.
“That was pretty much my reaction.” I sigh, in kind of an Oh, well. Who needs a groom when you’re this cute? way.
“But you’re gorgeous!” There goes his wandering gaze again.
Level four: he’s pretty much confirmed he’d like to see me naked.
“That’s sweet of you to say so.” I push an artfully curled lock of hair behind my ear, shivering as I anticipate Oliver’s presence behind me.
“What are you gonna do now?”
Here we teeter on level five: making plans.
“I haven’t decided,” I say, pondering. Ponder lonely as a cloud. I almost snicker. Wordsworth I am not. “My choices are run a bath, have a long soak and a drink or five. Or hit the bar and let my hair down.”
“The bar, definitely,” he asserts, grabbing the opportunity with both hands as the doors to the elevator slide open. “And as an apology on behalf of my gender, your drinks are on me.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Oliver answers for me. His voice sounds like it should come with a yellow warning label. Caution. Volatile when under pressure.
“This is Oliver,” I offer as his fingers curl possessively around my hip.
The man frowns.
“He’s not staying.”
“Gav. You coming?” one of the group calls from the open elevator.
Poor Gav. So conflicted. And Oliver? I can practically feel the heat of him simmering.
“I’ll see you in the bar?” Despite the question in his tone, Gav isn’t giving up hope.
“Maybe you will,” I say.
He steps into the waiting car with the kind of swagger that would’ve dissolved my guilt, had I been feeling any. “Room for a little one,” he offers suggestively as he turns.
“We’ll wait.” Oliver’s grip tightens, his words dripping with a frightening civility.
My stomach turns over with excitement.
Well, look at that. Game on.