Chapter 14
EVIE
If the pleasure is all his, then why am I vibrating from head to toe as he watches me? Oliver and OnlyFans. That would be an obsession in the making. He wouldn’t even have to get naked, just sit there in his Savile Row suit and his shiny handmade shoes, straightening his cuffs and telling me what to do. I mean, I wouldn’t do it. But I think we’d both get off on the tension.
“Was Saturday an off day for you?” I ask, ignoring the subtle scent of him drifting up from his collar. We’re in the shed now, and I’m still wearing his jacket. I can’t believe I almost let him kiss me again. It was only a deep warning woof from Bo that brought me back to my wits.
It’s so bad that the dog has more sense than me.
I turn my head when Oliver doesn’t answer and find him staring out over the kennel run, arms crossed, one broad shoulder leaning against a wooden column. I allow myself to drink him in. It’s kind of thrilling that I know what he looks like under those expensive threads of his. The long, graceful muscles of his thighs, the wide expanse of his back. That ass. I know the sounds he makes. Where he likes to be touched. Where I like to touch him. And now I’m sniffing his jacket like an addict denying her problem.
Come on, Evie. Get it together. The man is no Romeo.
I begin to slip out of his jacket when he appears to come back to himself.
He glances around the space the volunteers use as a base. It’s even more ramshackle than the rest of the sanctuary. “What makes you ask?”
“You were nice to me.” I throw his jacket across the space, and he catches it effortlessly.
“Was I?” His purring tone catches me off guard, his earlier words echoing in my ear. I’m not going to be nice to you. You’ll thank me for it. “You must’ve caught me on an off day,” he adds, dropping his jacket to the blue plastic office chair, the one with a wonky leg.
“That I can believe.”
“Because my powers of persuasion are winning you over?”
“Oliver, seriously. You’re looking at the wrong person. You need an actress.”
“Why, when we already have a relationship.”
“What relationship?” I ask, my tone flat.
“We’re friends. Friends who really like to—”
“Hand me that bag,” I demand loudly—the Evie equivalent of la-la-la-laa! as I point to the bag of doggy treats on top of a battered filing cabinet. I’m kind of surprised Bo hasn’t beaten me to them. Oliver closes his mouth with a smirk and does that spiky brow thing he does. The one that makes me want to shave it off. “Please?” I tag on heavily.
“My pleasure.” He throws the liver treats my way. “You’re missing the point. The involvement of an actress wouldn’t hurt Mitchell nearly enough. That’s what makes you perfect for this.”
“I’ll keep saying it if I need to—I’m not interested in revenge.”
“A fact I find astounding after what he did to you.”
“I just want to move on.” I take out a couple of treats, shove the bag into one pocket of my damp scrubs and the treats into the other. “I’m sorry about your jacket,” I add, noting the smear from Bo’s paws. “I’ll take it to the dry cleaner.”
He eyes it impassively. “Dump it. It’s ruined.”
“It’s just a little mud,” I chide, but he dismisses the topic with a flick of his hand.
“This animal sanctuary—does Nora take only dogs? And sheep?”
“Cats. Dogs. Sheep,” I reply, glad the topic of conversation has turned. “All kinds of things.” As I make my way into the yard, Oliver follows, and the din starts up: low barks and high yips, the puppies excited for company. “She had a llama a few months ago that someone was keeping on the twelfth floor of a high rise.”
His expression, it’s like that won’t quite compute. I guess in his world people aren’t given to flights of fancy. Or mental illness.
“She found him a home on a farm in Kent, but it’s mostly dogs she gets.” Shooing Bo out of the way, I turn to the first kennel run and unlock the gate. “Sadly, a lot of them have been through some kind of trauma. Isn’t that right, Mouse?” The improbably named Mouse might be the result of a three-way between a lurcher, a Shetland pony, and a wolf. And right now, he’s all teeth and growl.
“Eve, I think—” Oliver holds out his hand, his mouth beginning to form a word that looks a lot like stop . I don’t, slipping quickly into the pen.
“It’s fine. It’s you he’s growling at. He doesn’t like men, thanks to his last owner. Me and Mouse are buddies, aren’t we, sweetie?” Thick gums cover his teeth as I slip a liver treat between them. His tongue lolls as he chews, and as I pat his head, I swear he gives me the doggy version of a goofy grin. “It’s not everyone you’ll let stick a thermometer up your tushy, is it?”
“You’re close friends, then?” I laugh at that one. “Nora pays you to do that?”
“No. Labor of love, remember?” My hands move over Mouse, my assessment thorough but brief. “He had a couple of broken ribs when he arrived. Some nasty cuts and bites, but everything is healing nicely. Next week you get your booster,” I baby talk, taking his face in my hands.
“He’s got a head like a battering ram.”
I make a show of covering Mouse’s ears. “Hush! You’ll hurt his feelings.”
“Are they all abandoned?” he asks as I slip out from the kennel, throwing Mouse another treat.
“Some are surrendered voluntarily: change of circumstances—homelessness, new babies and partners. Some come from the local pound, saved from euthanasia in the nick of time. Then there are the ones picked up on the street. They’re usually in a terrible mess. Fleas, worms, sores, infections, and matted coats.”
“Until you come along.”
“Not just me. There are a couple of us who pitch in, also groomers and other volunteers. Dogs need to be walked, their runs and kennels cleaned, and then there’s the training. Cats need socialization, and then there’s the admin.”
“The cats take care of admin? How efficient.”
I catch myself smiling at his silly joke. Sometimes, I just don’t know whether I’m on my ass or my elbow with him.
“Nora would love the cats to work for their keep,” I answer brusquely. “She hates dealing with paperwork.”
“And the aim is to find all these animals new homes?”
“The ultimate aim. With medical help and a little TLC, most of the animals are ready for a family pretty quickly. For others, it’s the damage we can’t see that stops them from being pets. Psychological damage that can’t always be healed, though we try, don’t we, Mr. Bojangles?” I bend to pat his head as he dances between us.
“He’s a very different-looking dog,” Oliver says, his gaze sweeping along the kennels full of terriers, hounds, and our myriad of mixed breeds.
“Bo here is a designer doggy. A labradoodle that has found himself here through no fault of his own.” If you discount his intelligence and his willful nature.
“And he hasn’t been easy to rehome?”
“He has, but he’s like a boomerang. He just keeps coming back.”
“I wonder why,” Oliver mutters, moving Bo’s nose from his crotch again.
“He does seem to like sticking his head there.” I press my hand over my mouth, but it does nothing to stem my giggles.
“Do you suppose I should be flattered? Buy him a thank-you gift?”
“Maybe you could just adopt him? He’s already so fond of you.”
“Not a chance,” he deadpans.
“Nora wouldn’t let you, anyway. He’s staying until she finds a family who can convince her they’re going to keep him.”
Next, I slip into Bella’s run, the elderly beagle waddling her way over to me.
“What’s wrong with the way she walks?”
“Bella has cruciate ligament damage.”
“A torn ACL?”
“More like a chronic wearing,” I reply as I run through a quick checkup. Eyes. Ears. Teeth. Fur. No need for the works. She hasn’t been ill since she escaped and helped herself to a whole bin of kibble a few months ago, the greedy pup. It was touch and go as to whether her stomach would need to be pumped, and I’m sure she had the worst case of tummy ache, but that’s greedy beagles for you.
“You can operate to fix that, can’t you?”
I make a noncommittal noise as I pull out a liver treat. “She’s doing okay on anti-inflammatories, which is good, because Nora doesn’t have the funds to cover her surgery. Never mind a recovery.”
“What’s Change of Heart still doin’ here?” Nora’s strident question arrives before she does, rounding the corner with a chipped but steaming mug in each hand. She directs her beetle-browed look toward Oliver.
“I beg your pardon?” he asks blandly.
“You heard.”
“Nora,” I half laugh, half correct as I turn her way. “Oliver is not a volunteer.”
“If he’s here, he’s working. Them’s the rules,” she retorts, ignoring my gentle rebuke.
“I’m not sure you can afford my rate,” Oliver murmurs, though Nora pretends not to hear.
“There are a dozen fifteen-kilo bags of kibble that need moving into the stores. The pet shop on the high street donated it this morning.” The first she says to Oliver, the latter to me.
“Well, that’s great!”
“Would be even better if those bags could shift themselves.” She glares Oliver’s way.
“I take it you’d like me to move them,” Oliver asks with a completely straight face.
“Well,” she says, thrusting one of the steaming mugs in his direction. “Let me think. Does Barbie have a plastic fanny?”
Oliver blinks, taken aback.
“Is a duck’s arse watertight?” She glances my way. “You’re sure this one’s firing on all cylinders?”
“My cylinders fire just fine,” Oliver drawls. Thankfully, he doesn’t add, Just ask Eve.
“He looks like a chameleon in a packet of Skittles,” she says, disregarding his answer. “Confused. But they don’t have to be clever when they look like that, I suppose.”
“Nora!” I give in to a delighted snicker.
“You know that one stubborn hair you have on your nipple?” she asks out of nowhere. “The one you pluck, but no matter what, it just comes back?”
“No.” My answer sounds like a rusty violin string as my cheeks begin to burn hotter than a thousand suns. Lord, this woman!
“Well, I reckon your last one couldn’t have had more hair on his chest than me, but he was pretty.” Glancing over her shoulder, she gives Oliver a thorough once-over. “But this one, he’s something else.”
“Oh, my good Lord,” I mutter. Please teleport me someplace else. Say, Timbuktu?
Less than an hour later, and my four-legged charges are all fine and locked away, except Bo, who makes it clear he’s not going anyplace he doesn’t want to.
“I see she had other jobs for you to do,” I say with a smile as Oliver appears in the shed again. His shirtsleeves are folded to the elbows, and the hems of his dark pants are mud splattered. My body prickles with pleasure that he helped. He isn’t the kind of man who takes orders well, as my orgasms well know.
“The pleasure is all mine.”
The echo of his words curls around my ear and bursts pleasurably a lot farther south. I’ve never had sex with a man like him, one who made my pleasure the aim, rather than a sideline to his. As movement catches my eye, I’m yanked from my smutty memories.
“I think she’s under the impression I’m here as community service.” Oliver whacks his hand against his elbow, as though it’s a successful means to clean.
“Yeah.” I blink heavily. What the hell is wrong with me? This is the man who’s trying to blackmail me.
“I’m usually paid for what I know, not for what I do.” Oliver stalks across the space, the smile playing on his lips suggesting he can see right into my head.
I give myself a metaphoric shake. “No one here gets paid. Ever.”
“I feel like I should ask you to take a picture for proof. My partners will never believe this is how I’ve spent my afternoon.”
“Getting sweaty?”
“That they’d believe.” He slides me a look that makes my skin sizzle. “Especially if I said I was with you.”
“It was Fin and Matt, right?”
“Yes.” He kind of frowns and smiles at the same time.
“You mentioned their names once. Their names also came up in association during my Google search.”
His smile deepens, and I feel like all my screws rattle loose. I might’ve lied to Riley when I said I don’t feel all heart-eye emoji when I look at him, because I do. Sometimes. And sometimes I imagine myself shaving off that annoyingly haughty eyebrow.
“Why would I need an actress?” he murmurs. “Someone to pretend they like me. When I have the real thing.”
“Stretching.”
“You’re saying your heart doesn’t skip a beat when I’m near?” His words are as hot as the devil’s whisper and twice as tempting. “Mine does when I look at you.”
Nope. Non. Nee. Nein and nyet. Do not listen to that.
“Ignore everything else. Labels, reasons, my methods of persuasion.” I snort at that, but he carries on. “To spend time together would be so good.”
My stomach dips at his sultry tone, but to give him his due, he doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t pull me against him, making my wits scatter. I’m not sure if I’m happy or disappointed.
“Sorry, say that again.” Because my brain just checked out to happy humpy land, the place where you can have all the sex you want without the reasons, repercussions, judgment, and heartache.
“I said don’t do it for you. For revenge, or because I forced you to. Do it for good. Do it for Nora.”
“I ...” Know she’d probably love to live vicariously through the tales of Evie and Oliver in happy humpy land, but that’s not what he means. My heart sinks—I know what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth again. Dammit, this right here is the trick the universe loves to play on all her unsuspecting children. Lead the suckers down one path, then pull the rug out from under them.
“Fifty thousand pounds, deposited to Nora’s bank account. For the benefit of the animals.”
“Bribery, Oliver?” My response brims with disappointment. He just had to prove the stereotype, didn’t he, the rich, exploitative fucker?
“Think of it as an act of charity.”
“This is not a sponsored walk you’re inviting me to.” And sadly, not a sponsored screw. “You’re asking me to move in with you, to pretend we’re in a relationship. I think you’re also suggesting I lie to the authorities about my visa.”
“Yes, to the first. No to the latter. I’ve spoken to my lawyer, and she’s already engaged an immigration specialist.”
“I didn’t say yes!”
“She’s very experienced, I’m told.”
“I don’t care.”
“And extremely optimistic regarding your position.”
“Then I’ll hire her.”
“You’d have to find her first.” He smiles like the devil. “She generally deals with oligarchs and the ultrawealthy. She keeps a very low profile.”
“You mean she works for the corrupt. I guess she must if she’s working for you.”
“It means she works for those who have the means,” he replies without bite. “I hope you have a heavy piggy bank if you want to retain her services yourself.”
“You are such a—”
“All in all, her fees are well worth it, especially as she’s confident your visa doesn’t have to be dependent on a relationship with me.”
“Except where you want me to lie .”
“Yes.” His voice is clipped. All business.
“What is it that makes you want to grind Mitchell’s nose into the dust so bad?”
“You say that like you find it unappealing.” At the mention of Mitchell’s name, he rakes a hand through his hair, leaving a wave of dark furrows. “For God’s sake, Eve, we should be united—Mitchell Atherton fucked us both.”
“My revenge is to move on and live my life well,” I choke out, shocked by his sudden vehemence.
“You call living in a house shared with strangers, waiting until that bastard feels like giving back your belongings ‘living well’?”
“None of this has anything to do with you.”
“Fifty thousand, and I’ll pay for the beagle’s ACL repair, plus the surgery of any other needy animal.” I open my mouth, but he cuts me off. “And medical bills for any and all animals admitted to the sanctuary for the next twelve months.”
“It’s still bribery.”
“I don’t know whether to commend or pity you for your convictions.” He slides his phone from his pocket, throwing it to me without warning. I grab it, instinct taking over for logic, because I should’ve let it tumble to the floor.
“What’s this?”
“Look at it.”
I glance down—a mistake—the screen reacting to the accidental brush of my thumb. Shock immediately twists under my breastbone at a flash of Mitchell’s face and a heading that seems somehow familiar. A Little Bird. “No.” I thrust out my arm. “I don’t want to.”
“Come now, Eve. Willful ignorance never helped anyone.”