Chapter 7
OLIVER
“Hey.”
“Is dried grass. Is not an appropriate greeting,” I reply.
“Thanks, Mom .” Fin, my friend and business partner, saunters into the suite. “I’ll try for polite next time.”
“Liar.” I swing the door closed. “I thought we were meeting downstairs.”
“I was early.” He pauses midturn, unable to resist his reflection in the wall mirror. He slides his hand through his fair hair and, satisfied all is as it should be, drops negligently onto the end of the sofa. “Actually, you were late. But don’t let that minor detail bother you.”
“By five minutes,” I murmur, making my way across the room to the credenza. “And it’s breakfast, not a merger.”
“It was breakfast, now it’s brunch.”
“Any excuse for a mimosa.” With my back to him, my mouth curls as I swipe up my wallet.
“I’m not your girlfriend.”
“You’re almost pretty enough,” I reply, shooting him a look over my shoulder.
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. My Time Is Valuable. Where’s my apology, huh? You give me shit for my timekeeping.”
“Because it’s mostly an alien concept to you.”
“Why are you staring at your wallet? Did last night’s date clean you out?”
I turn to face him as I slip it into my back pocket. “Paying for companionship is more your thing, isn’t it?”
“One time.” Finger in the air and grin unrepentant, Fin adds, “It happened one time. And she told me she was a model.” His finger becomes accusatory. “And I didn’t pay for it in the end, so it doesn’t count.”
“If you say so.” Leaning back, I fold my arms across my chest.
“Speaking of women”—he glances over his shoulder in the direction of my bedroom—“where is the delightful Selena, anyway?”
My answer is a nonverbal who?
“Or is it Elizabeth this weekend? Carolina? Whichever horsey woman you’re boning this week.”
I slide him a bored look. Fin has never met Selena, Elizabeth, or anyone else coming out of my bedroom.
“One of these days I’m gonna catch you out,” he says with an admonishing wag of his finger.
“Unlikely.”
“I know women are the reason you live in a hotel.”
“I live here because it’s convenient.”
“Exactly what I said.”
“And because I own it.”
“You also own an apartment block in Knightsbridge, commercial space on Canary Wharf, a huge chunk of the Docklands, but I don’t see you bedding down at any of those for the night.”
My chest expands, though I stifle the sigh. “No one lives in the Docklands, Fin.”
“No one you’d speak to, you mean.”
I push off from the credenza. “Shall we?”
“Wait. All this conversation, and you haven’t said a word.”
“I’m sure I’ve said several. And I’m about to say several other less-pleasant ones.”
“About yesterday.”
I’m startled for a moment but then remember Fin doesn’t know about Eve or the tension bunching my shoulders that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with waking to an empty bed. An empty bed and a scribbled note on hotel stationery.
Oliver, thank you for your friendship.
Those were some benefits . . .
Eve x
Friends.
I’ve never had a friend I wanted to fuck my name, my fingerprints, into.
It’s been a long time since I’d woken alone after a one-night stand. Living in a hotel has many conveniences. The door is always open. I don’t need to maintain extra staff or security. The location is convenient and very secluded, given I live in the penthouse with my own elevator, and if I require anything—from a coffee at three o’clock in the morning to condoms at that vital moment, the concierge is just a phone call away.
Despite Fin’s assertions, my private life isn’t conducted out of this suite. I book another, then explain to my companion that I have an early meeting but that the room has a late checkout. That they should order breakfast or whatever. Meanwhile, I just pop upstairs unseen.
It’s a win-win situation. A sexual connection without the need to suffer through that awkward morning after. I feel my brows pinch. I would’ve settled for awkward over alone this morning.
“I expected to find you doing cartwheels.”
“What was that?” I glance up, realizing I’m standing halfway between the credenza and the door and Fin is eyeing me narrowly.
“You haven’t heard? Ah, man.” He rubs a hand across his mouth as though to hide his delight. “This is gonna give you such a fuckin’ hard-on.”
I rotate my wrist. Please, go on. Or get to the point.
“You know Atherton was supposed to get married yesterday?”
The sound of his name usually makes me want to curse, but this time I find it hard to curtail my smile. “Was he?”
“You’ve heard,” Fin retorts flatly.
“No.” I give a quick shrug, not wanting to be too disingenuous. The fact is I hadn’t known. Not until I’d slid my arm around his would-be bride. “I take it he didn’t?”
“The bride came to her senses.”
About a week too late, if I remember.
“Caught him with his pants down. But that’s not even the fun part.”
“Because finding out your fiancé is cheating is always fun.”
“Pah! Like you’ve ever dated anyone for longer than a week.”
“Not true. Also, kettle”—I tap my chest, then point my finger at him—“meet pot.”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
Altering my path, I take a seat opposite him. “I’m all ears.”
“Make it eyes too,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Because it went viral.”
“What did?” I sit straight. I would’ve known if we’d been recorded. I took her to my club, for God’s sake—that place is like a vault. A fucking crypt! Then I booked her into her own room at the hotel. I just hadn’t meant to stay there with her.
“Just a clip of the ceremony.” He stares down at the screen of his phone. “Dude was definitely punching.”
“Yes, wasn’t he?” Mitchell Atherton is a posh boy with an empty head who once got lucky at my expense. He’s greedy and rash, and I’ve no doubt in my belief he’d be idiot enough to screw up his life over a quick fuck. And Eve? Well, Eve is just ... I find myself trailing my forefinger across my bottom lip as though I could still taste the depth and complexity of her. That balance of her sweet and bitter notes.
“She’s hot.”
“Mm.” Like a flame dancing in my hands. And just as dangerous. She’d intrigued me, but I hadn’t intended to act on it, no matter how her eyes darkened or her breath hitched at my whispered commands. It was the best night of my life, yet it’s left me with the worst feeling.
Because I woke alone?
“Wait, do you know her?”
“An educated guess,” I add, my tone clipped. “It’s all such a cliché.”
“And she looks the type.”
My attention slices up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Gorgeous. A killer rack.” He gives a meaningless shrug. “A bod made for wet dreams.” With that, he pitches his phone into my hands, which saves me from wrapping them around his throat. “Play it,” he demands. “Then take me to breakfast for making your day.”
“For the love of everything that’s holy,” I mutter, throwing down my napkin. I hook my elbow over the back of my chair and turn to the table of women seated behind. “Do you mind?” I glance pointedly down at the phone the blonde is holding in one hand. In the other is a half-drunk mimosa. She has the good grace to blush as she flicks from the social media app blaring out yesterday’s travesty at Shoreditch Town Hall.
When I told Eve I’d pay to see her throw rocks at her ex, I didn’t for one minute think I’d get the chance. But then Fin had thrown me his phone and I’d watched the minute-long recording of the moment she rejected him so spectacularly.
It was good, for at least the first dozen times. She’d blazed incandescent, and it made me want her all over again. But I’m not the only voyeur, the likes, saves, and shares of the video increasing by the hundreds every few seconds. It seems like the whole of the UK has watched it, including the group of women in the same restaurant, playing it on repeat.
“What’s your problem?” demands a brunette from the far side of the table, her words slightly slurred. “Is the dick groom a friend of yours?”
It used to be that London’s streets were full of drunken football hooligans on Sundays. Now it’s women, teetering on their heels after bottomless brunches.
“I just find it hard to stomach how society revels in the suffering of others.”
“He deserves to suffer,” she says, her eyes daring me to contradict her.
Fin smothers a chuckle, knowing how I feel about Atherton. While I might’ve suggested death by cabbie yesterday, I’m not about to discuss that with a group of half-drunken strangers.
“I was talking about the bride.” The very lovely bride who snuck out of my hotel this morning, leaving me with nothing but sore abdominals and the flavor of her pleasure on my tongue.
Smarting? Me? Definitely.
“You should stop talking,” Fin mutters in a tone meant only for my ears.
“Bad enough to discover her fiancé’s infidelity,” I say, ignoring him, “but then to find herself the viewing pleasure of half of London seems cruel, don’t you think?”
“We’re applauding her,” the brunette announces, raising her glass. “Read the comments.” She thrusts her phone in my direction.
“She’s a boss-ass bitch!” interjects her friend.
At a strangled noise, I glance behind me to find Fin slunk low in his seat, his hand covering his eyes.
“You’re on your own,” he mutters.
“She’s a motha-fuckin’ queen!” yells the redhead, turning suddenly street. And American. “If she was here, I’d buy her a drink. Hell, we all would.”
If she were here, I’d probably drag her back upstairs, and not just to protect her from being gossip fodder.
“You should get your sister to interview her for her blog,” says the woman who’d been playing the video. “It’s all over the socials. It’s only a matter of time before the news gets ahold of it.”
“By all means, humiliate her further,” I mutter as I turn back.
“Holy patriarchy, Batman! You just don’t get it, do you?”
“What has feminism got to do with it?” My words drip with derision as I whip around again.
Fin makes a noise as though he’s in pain.
“How could you possibly understand?” one of the women demands.
But I comprehend better than anyone because I felt her tremble. Heard how she disparaged herself. I’ll be damned if I sit here allowing others to make her the topic of the day.
“Ah, man. The City Chronicle already posted about it. Listen to this!”
I tell myself I’m not as bad as them as I pull out my phone and search for the newspaper’s online article. No, not an article of news. A fucking gossip column.
A Little Bird Told Us ...
about a scandalous scene at a Shoreditch Town Hall wedding yesterday when a bride read out her cheating fiancé’s salacious text messages in the place of her vows. Guests (and the—allegedly—unfaithful groom) were left speechless as the bride extracted her savage revenge at the altar before taking off.
Did you see the viral video? A Little Bird suggests you check out the link below, because there’s five hundred big ones waiting for the first person to tell us the names of the (un)happy couple.
“Of all the vindictive, vengeful ...”
“He got off lightly.” The woman directly behind me pokes me angrily in my shoulder, completely misinterpreting my meaning.
I turn to their glares, but before I can respond, Fin is on his feet, rounding the table.
“Ladies, please forgive my friend. The truth is, he feels deeply.” His hands are clasped, and his gaze touches each of them, his expression the mask he wears when he’s tasked with giving our clients bad news. He’s bloody good at winning over hearts and minds, so I let him get on with it. “And, well, he won’t want me to say this, but he was recently hurt in love.” I snort and shake my head. “What you’ve just seen was a human reaction in defense of another’s pain. I’m sure we can all understand that. Which of us hasn’t been hurt in love?” And then he comes in with the perfect close when he orders the women another round of mimosas.
“You were recently hurt in love, right?” he says, sliding back into his seat. “Weren’t you handcuffed to a bed and the metal chafed your wrist? Left you with a graze?”
“That sounds more like you.”
“Nah. If it wasn’t you, it was probably Matt. Where is he, anyway?” Matt is the third partner of our private equity company, Maven Inc., which largely deals in real estate investments.
“He’s in Dublin this weekend. Was that really necessary?” I say, indicating the guzzling coven behind me.
“I guess I could’ve just watched. Waited until you were wearing one of their drinks. We all know how you feel about your clothing.”
“By all means, arm them with more liquid bullets.”
“Just keep your mouth shut and eyes this way, and you’ll be fine.”
“I’m not allowed an opinion?”
“How can I put this ...” Steepling his fingers, he peers at me pensively. “It’s not your opinion that’s the issue. Those women have the wrong impression, thanks to your goddamn miserable face.”
“That seemed to require a lot of contemplation.”
“You’re always a fucker, you’re just not usually so tetchy.”
“I’m stoic.”
“Like someone pissed on your cornflakes. I mean, I can’t imagine why I thought seeing your archenemy be humiliated might make you smile,” he mutters, reaching for his own glass.
“He’s not my enemy,” I reply loftily. “He is below my notice. Mostly.”
“If only that were true. Sometimes I think the world would be a better place if you two just hate fucked and got over yourselves.”