Chapter 8
EVIE
“What do you mean he can’t be my unicorn?” I drop the phone from my ear, bringing it back just as quick. “Who died and made you the boss of me?”
“I wouldn’t be your boss for all the bourbon in Kentucky.” Riley snorts. “You are unmanageable.”
“Doesn’t stop you from trying.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is counsel . You know, like a friend worried for you and your mental health.”
“My mental health is just fine.” I glance up, distracted as a group of teenagers passes by the front window. Riley lives in a mews house in a super bougie part of Chelsea, on a narrow street of pastel facades and overflowing window boxes. Lined with buildings originally intended as coach houses—to accommodate the horses and servants of those living in much grander spaces—the cobblestone lanes were laid for hooves rather than quaintness. These days, the inhabitants are more likely to own five-hundred-horsepower Aston Martins than coaches with two high-stepping grays. Home to London’s artsy and affluent, the street is also an Instagram hot spot.
“If you want the truth, last night was just what I needed.”
“I can’t get my head around it. A one-night stand is so unlike you.”
I hum a noncommittal sound and cross my legs, running my finger around the hole in the knee of my leggings. Well, not my leggings, but what Lori, Riley’s roommate, begrudgingly loaned me. Gosh, her face as she opened the front door for her morning run and found me about to stick the key in her mouth. In my wedding dress, with my hair bedraggled and my skin beard-burn pink. Trust Riley to have gotten it wrong because his roommate hadn’t gone away for the weekend after all. So much for raiding her closet in peace. But at least Riley got his cleaner to leave her key. Without it, Lori might not have let me in.
“It’s not every day you get humiliated at the altar.”
“I think you have that the wrong way around, Evie. Just do yourself a favor and avoid the hair salon.”
I reach up, snagging a lock of wayward hair and sliding it behind my ear. How spooky; I’d just been contemplating booking an appointment after I’d grown my hair out just for yesterday. “Why?”
“The effects of a revenge bang are usually short lived. Revenge bangs on the other hand ... Remember the great tenth-grade hair experiment?”
“How could I forget? But last night wasn’t revenge.” It was an experience like no other—an experience I won’t ever have again. “I see it more as just returning the favor.”
Riley chuckles. “Oh, I bet Bitchell will just love that.”
“I don’t really care what he thinks. I am so over thinking about yesterday and what an idiot I’ve been. You know, when I read those texts, my love for that asshole was snuffed out like a cheap candle.” I click my finger and thumb together. It’s the truth but not the whole truth.
“I’d like to snuff him out,” Riley mutters.
“I mean, if I never really knew him, how could I have loved him?”
“Evie, honey. Love is like an orgasm. If you have to ask yourself if you felt it, the answer is, you didn’t.”
“Maybe we both fooled ourselves into thinking we were in love, or else why did he cheat? And if I really loved him, wouldn’t I still be distraught?”
“I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure out a reaction to your one-night stand.”
“Is the air a little thin up there on your high horse? Because I recall a certain someone taking twins home recently. Twins! That’s just nasty.” I frown as the doorbell rings. “Who can that be?”
“Sadly, my psychic powers are on the fritz, along with this damn leg.”
“You’re so crabby. Do you need better pain meds?”
“Put it this way: if you were here, I might ask you to put me out of my misery. Let Lori get it in case it’s him .”
“He doesn’t know where you live.” Never cared to ask, I guess. “Besides, Lori is upstairs, probably sticking pins in the puppet that looks like me.”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
“Then why is there a note on her bedroom door that reads The We Hate Evie Club—Meeting in Session ?”
Riley laughs as the bell rings again.
“Who the heck visits on Sunday?” I complain, climbing from the couch.
“Wild idea, go find out, because we’re not done here.”
“We are so done. Telling you about last night wasn’t an act of confession,” I mutter, trudging my way along the hallway. “I don’t need your absolution, Father Filthy.” But I do need my new bank card to arrive. I reported it and my credit card lost this morning. They said three business days until a new one is mailed out. It’ll be good to be solvent again.
“I just don’t want to see you hurt.” Riley’s sigh is audible down the line.
“I don’t need to know him,” I reply as I unlock the front door. “I’m not seeing him again. One and done.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Riley, I am not all heart-eye emojis over the guy. As usual, you’re missing the point, because when I said he was my unicorn, I was referring to his magical horn. And by horn, I mean—”
“His dick!”
Riley’s pronouncement is shrill as I swing the door open, and my entire stomach flips, somehow landing on my ovaries. Because out in the street stands Oliver, looking like he’s just stepped from a yacht in Saint-Tropez. His jet hair is sun dappled, and the hem of his linen shirt flutters in the summer breeze.
“His magical dick,” Riley repeats, oblivious to the man with the magical member standing in front of me. “Come to think of it, I think I heard you yelling last night. From all the way over here. In France. Harder, pony boy, harder!” he cries in some approximation of Evie ecstasy. And then he whinnies.
“You were enthusiastic.” The vision in front of me is all smoky tone and devilish grin as he slips off his sunglasses, those strangely lovely eyes pinning me where I stand. “Hello, Eve.”
“Who is that?” Riley demands from somewhere near my hip because I almost dropped the phone.
“What are you doing here?” My heart seems to slide through my insides, settling in the space between my legs. I cross my legs at the ankles, oh so casually, as though he might hear it thrumming away down there.
“Isn’t it obvious?” His gaze moves over me, stroking like a caress.
“Oh my God!” Riley squawks. “Is that the unicorn?”
“Shut up,” I hiss into the phone as I swing back to the hall. “If you wanted to know who’s at the door, you should’ve installed a Ring doorbell.” I end the call, setting my phone on the thin hall console.
Oliver moves back a pace as I step into the front street, pulling the door almost closed behind me.
“Seriously, what are you doing here?” I strain to keep my tone even, conscious of passing foot traffic as my heart pounds away in its highly inappropriate resting place.
“Ah.” Oliver slips his hands into his pockets, his gaze dipping to the cobblestones. “I see,” he murmurs as he scuffs the sole of his expensive loafer. “I’d hoped you might be pleased to see me.”
Pleasure pokes me in the chest. “That I am not buying.” I’m digging it, but not buying it.
“I’m sorry?” His gaze lifts, and he blinks almost owlishly.
“This whole ...” I wave my finger over whatever this is meant to be. “I’m so adorably embarrassed, floppy-haired rom-com male lead.”
“My hair is not floppy.” His eyebrow spikes. “And I was aiming for bashful.”
“Doubtful.” I try not to grin as he straightens. Maybe Riley was right. Maybe I’m not cut out for one-night stands, because I’m not exactly unhappy to see this amount of tall, dark, and handsome on my (borrowed) doorstep. “Have you ever been?”
“No, not for a while.”
“Color me surprised,” I deadpan, crossing my arms across my chest over Lori’s threadbare T-shirt. The girl loves me, what can I say? You can practically see my bra through the worn cotton—the only bra currently in my possession, the same one he peeled from me last night. It’s only a hop and a skip of his thoughts for him to realize I’m not wearing panties. Thanks to him destroying them. And that’s hardly a Sunday afternoon conversation.
“You didn’t seem too concerned about my personality yesterday. Aren’t you going to invite me in?” His gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
“Not until you tell me how you found me. And probably not even then.”
“You took a hotel car. I asked the concierge for the address after I woke this morning. Alone. ”
“And you thought, what? My leaving must’ve been a mistake.” Check me out, all cool and feisty, as though I totally wrote the one-night stand rule book.
“Why did you leave, incidentally?”
“To save us this.” I gesture between us.
“Are you embarrassed?” He shifts his weight onto one leg and makes a V across his chin with his hand. “Because I remember you being much less inhibited last night.”
His tone vibrates under my skin. At least until a passerby does a double take, no doubt catching his meaning. “Hush!”
“You are embarrassed,” he says with a low, delighted chuckle. “How charming.”
“The concierge wouldn’t have told you where the car took me,” I retort, ignoring my burning cheeks. “Unless you bribed them.”
“Bribery is unnecessary when you own the hotel.”
“You— what? ”
“I own the hotel. Relax, Eve. This isn’t the start of a stalking campaign.”
“That’s exactly what a stalker would say.”
The look he slides me isn’t exactly complimentary. Can’t say I blame him as I stand here in my borrowed, unattractive activewear, my face free of makeup and my hair resembling a tumbleweed. A serious stalker would probably run the other way.
“I’m here because I need to speak with you.”
“Why?” Disquiet pokes at me as he reaches to his back pocket, pulling out his phone. Better than my torn panties. He hands it to me wordlessly, and my eyes dip to the screen. “Pulse Tok?” The popular social media app is already open. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type.”
I have it on my own phone, mostly for video makeup tutorials and people doing crazy dances. Maybe I’m expecting something like that, and that’s why it takes my brain a moment to compute. To make sense of what I’m seeing. The sound isn’t on, not that I need it, as I recognize my wedding dress. Yep, that’s me, full of vengeance and experiencing (what looks like) a mental break.
“Oh. Oh no.” I press a hand to my mouth as a wave of nausea rises through my insides. Oliver reaches for me as I sway, but I’m not about to faint. Or maybe I am, as my butt hits the door and I find myself sitting heavily. “This is ... so bad.”
“Is it?” He crouches down, his gaze level with mine, but there’s no sympathy in those striking eyes.
“You’re kidding, right? Look at the number of times this has been watched!” I demand, extending his phone. So much for consoling myself that a small wedding meant fewer people witnessed my disgrace. What a joke.
“Six million, last count.” His hand retracts when it becomes clear I’m not ready to give it back to him. “But I’m sure most people watch it more than once.”
“How is that helpful? And it’s eight million now! Is there anyone left in London who hasn’t seen this?”
“I’m told viral can mean regional or worldwide.”
“Oh my God.” Home? My heart begins to bang against my rib cage like it’s trying to escape. “Hey, no! I haven’t finished,” I complain as, this time, he successfully tugs the phone away.
“You’re familiar with how it ends.”
“Me and half the world!”
“That’s not really true. There were only two of us in the hotel room last night.” There’s a smoky hint in his voice, yet his words seem vaguely threatening.
“Your hotel, you mean.” I’m annoyed he didn’t say, though I’m not sure why I find the news surprising. The rich are such an untrustworthy bunch.
“Would it have made a difference had I said?” When my eyes meet his, I get that telltale little flutter between my legs. “I thought not.”
What the hell was I thinking? Just because Oliver isn’t all about the flex doesn’t mean he’s different.
“Last night isn’t the issue, not when I’ve made a spectacle of myself in front of an audience of millions.”
“You should read the comments. You have a lot of fans.”
“Don’t.” I hold up my hand like a stop sign, because nothing good can come of this. Or from him being here. “Tell me what you want. I know you didn’t come all this way to show me that.” Nausea rises as I glance down at his phone.
“I have a proposition to put to you.”
“A proposition?” My tone makes a passing couple turn abruptly.
“That’s not what I was proposing.”
So maybe that was wishful thinking. A night with him was a fun distraction, but I’m not making the same mistake twice.
“Look, Oliver, I don’t have time for any of this. I have no money,” I say, beginning to count my problems off against my fingers, “no phone, no clothes, no idea how much longer I can stay in the country, and now the cherry on the shit show that is my life is a viral video that makes me look like bridezilla on crack cocaine!”
“As I’ve been trying to tell you, I can help.”
I laugh. Manically. It’s better than giving in to the alternative.
“Shall we go inside and discuss it?” he says once I’ve calmed. Outwardly, at least.
I glance up at the sky as though seeking divine intervention, but I’m just stalling. “No,” I answer, dropping my head. I don’t need Lori to hear how my life is falling apart. And then there’s the small matter of how, when he crouched in front of me, I caught the scent of his cologne. And we know how that went yesterday.
“This is not a conversation to have in the street,” he prompts.
“In case I run away?”
“Yes, well.” He spikes a brow. “You find me not wearing a tie.”
Was that a low blow or an enjoyable one? It’s hard to tell, given the way my body throbs. “I can’t invite you in.”
“Can’t or won’t?” When I don’t answer, he glances to the end of the street, where the shopping pavilion begins. String lights hang and colorful bunting flutters between the quaint buildings, home to artisanal bakeries, traditional cheesemongers, and upmarket eateries, all overflowing with tourists and bougie locals on this sunny summer’s day. “Why don’t we do this over a drink?”
“Sure. How about the grill place?” Somewhere I’m likely to stay vertical and fully clothed. Not that we’ll get a seat anywhere today, I think with a frisson of malicious glee. It’ll make this meeting short, if nothing else.
“Wonderful.” He rises gracefully, the breadth of him setting me in the shade. “Shall we?”
“You go on ahead. I need to freshen up,” I answer, ignoring his outstretched hand. And by that, I mean “find out if Lori is the same size shoe” because I’m not sure I can claim shoeless is the new boho.
“I’ll see you soon.”
My mouth twists. “Because that didn’t sound like a threat. Nope, not at all. I get it. You know where I live.”
“For now,” he answers cryptically. He turns then, reminding me he has the kind of ass made for jeans. But you can’t truly appreciate what you don’t trust.