Chapter 16
EVIE
A Little Bird Told Us.
A little bird, my ass. That thing is more like an albatross, something bigmouthed and with the propensity to shit on your head.
“Are you listening to me?”
“What?” Rain lashes against the car window as I turn to Oliver. “Yeah, I’m all ears.” All ears, annoyance, and anxiety.
“So you’ll move in. Today, preferably.”
“What’s the hurry?” Not that I have any real problem moving into his hotel. I guess it means I won’t have to hear Lori whine about the press when they turn up.
After reading the stupid A Little Bird column, I went back and read the previous ones. Then I googled the dating show Mitch had taken part in. I still don’t know what to think about that, except that it’s just another level of bullshit, and it adds another level of disbelief that I almost made it to the altar with that man.
I didn’t touch the other articles, blogs, and mentions because I already felt like the media and the internet had chosen to evacuate their bowels on my head. I never wanted to be famous, but I think it might beat infamy, hands down.
“You’re not listening. Again.”
“I am!”
“What did I say?”
“Something about . . .”
“I said we have a very short timeline in which to achieve our aims.”
“Yeah, three months.” I remember that tidbit from before. “Also, not my aims. Yours.” My stomach flips. This has got to be the craziest idea in the history of crazy ideas. And worse, I said yes to it.
“Well?” he demands.
“Yes, Oliver. I’ll move into your hotel. But just so we’re straight, only because you’re holding the threat of deportation like a cartoon anvil of calamity over my head.”
Sticking with the analogy, I’m Wile E. Coyote, wedged in a canyon where Mitch and Oliver are my rock and my hard place.
“Not just into the hotel, but my suite.”
“What?” This time, my stomach swoops ... not unpleasantly. “No.” I shake my head. No way.
“It’s a large suite. There’s space for us both, and if it helps, the bedrooms are at opposite ends.”
Another tummy swoop at the mention of beds. I glance out the window, afraid my face might betray me, because what in the fish cakes is wrong with me? Have I developed some kind of manipulation kink?
“You know, only assholes make their driver stand out in the rain.”
“He has an umbrella,” Oliver retorts tersely, barely sparing a glance for his driver. “He’s there because you didn’t want to go somewhere else to discuss this, while insisting on privacy.”
“I didn’t think you’d make him stand out in the rain!” Why am I surprised? I need to remember this is who Oliver is.
“The sooner we have this discussion—”
“Fine!” I snap. “I’ll move into the hotel but not your suite.” But he’s already frowning. “It’s not like anyone will find out.”
“That’s not a chance I’m willing to take. For the next three months, we need to look like a couple madly in love.”
“No one’s going to believe that. Not after I was about to marry someone else—they’ll say you’re my rebound.”
“Then you’ll just have to convince them otherwise.”
“Me? Why do I have to convince them?”
“Because you’re the one with the resistance.”
“I’m not having sex with you.” The words seem to burst from nowhere.
“Sex isn’t crucial to our agreement.” Way to pour a bucket of cold water over my irresistibility. “The person you most need to convince won’t be aware of your recent troubles. I very much doubt he reads the gutter press. The story, as far as he’s concerned, is we’re in love, living together, and looking for a more permanent home than a hotel. Ours is a whirlwind romance.”
“You put the d in delusional if you think anyone will buy that.”
Better he puts d in delusional than the d anywhere near me.
“I have every confidence in your abilities.”
I don’t know why, when life just keeps taking chunks out of my ass. But there are fifty thousand reasons to keep me here. Bella will have her surgery. The oldies who are likely never to be adopted will have meds for their arthritis, plus a little more comfort. There might even be money for the traumatized puppers like Mouse to access behavioral therapy.
Your scruples versus the animals.
Your care for and of them.
Stay or go, Eve. Help the animals or go back to Connecticut.
Blackmail is his slap, and that fifty thousand the caress of his velvet glove.
I just can’t believe I’m on the verge of moving in with a man who has more cash than scruples—a man I can’t trust. But I need to know more of what I’ve signed on for.
“Why three months?” I ask casually, as I watch a rivulet of rain track down the car window.
“The property is going to auction in the autumn. My plan is to secure it before then.”
“Won’t the owner hang out for the auction? More bidders usually means more money.”
“He isn’t motivated purely by money. He’s selling a piece of history and wants to do right by it.”
“Then he should find a totally different buyer,” I mutter, glancing his way. Screw it, I’m not holding back. “From where I’m sitting, neither of you deserve it.”
“We’re nothing alike,” he utters icily.
“Except when it comes to manipulating me.”
“He put you in this position,” he grates out, straightening his cuffs.
“And you’re just taking advantage of it, right? Totally different.” Folding my arms, I give my head a reproachful shake.
“The suite. Preferably today.”
So much for that tactic. “Fine. We’ll be roommates.” He might take advantage of me, but that doesn’t extend to my body. Not that he seems all that interested. “What else is on your nefarious agenda? Am I supposed to pretend to be some doe-eyed sycophant—a rich man’s airhead?”
“I would like you to be yourself. Without the attitude, preferably.”
Myself? I give a huff of disbelief.
“Two reasons.” He glances down, tweaking the pleat in his pants. “First, you’ll need to convince my friends.”
“They don’t know about your taste for blackmail, I take it.”
“If they find out, you’ll be on a plane back to the US quicker than you can say ‘forcible deportation.’”
“Got it. Keep up the pretense in front of your friends.”
“Good.”
“They really aren’t in on this thing with the house?”
“It’s a private matter.”
“What’s it called, anyway?” These types of buildings usually have names. Castle this. Mansion that. Never 123 Easy Street.
“I’ll tell you when you need to know.”
“Whatever.” I feign indifference. I guess I won’t be googling the heck out of that. “When will Nora get her money?”
“When I get my house.”
“What happens if I can’t swing it?”
“Then the deal is off.”
“But that’s not fair—I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to carry this off.”
“Then you’d better try very hard.”
Asshole.
“After a period of being seen together,” he begins.
“Define together ,” I demand, interrupting him.
“Dinners, outings, that kind of thing. Once I’m satisfied you’re up to the task, I’ll introduce you to the owner.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter flatly. “And then what? You want me to dazzle him so he doesn’t notice what you’re up to?”
His smile seems reluctant. “That would be something to see.”
“Seriously, Oliver, just tell me exactly what you expect me to do.”
“Adore me.”
I roll my eyes so hard, I’m sure I see the inside of my skull.
“It won’t be a problem for you,” he says smoothly. “You’ve convinced me before. Against my better judgment.”
“Sex is not adoration.”
“Then just look at me like you want to fuck me.” Reaching out, he tips my chin, those mesmerizing eyes boring into me, corkscrew sharp. “No, darling,” he murmurs. “Not fuck me up.”
“What else?” I overstress.
“Just be yourself. I think you’ll get along with the owner. You likely have lots in common.”
“Was he recently cheated on? Blackmailed? Forced to pretend he’s into someone too?”
“From the woman who manipulated me into bed.” He smiles. “Try not to forget I’m not the only one getting something out of this.”
“My visa,” I mutter.
“And help for Nora. Managing the narrative of your split. Protection from anything Atherton might throw your way.” He presses his elbow to the leather armrest between us, leaning in. “Believe me, Eve. There are many benefits available to you.”
“And believe me, Oliver. I’m not having sex with you.”