Chapter 18
EVIE
“Eve, I’m downstairs.” Oliver’s clipped words ring through the handset of my new phone. It has my old number—Mitchell’s number is blocked, obviously—and I have my new bank cards, and passport, thanks to reporting it lost, which isn’t really a lie. But just as importantly, I have this:
“Good for you!” I say into the phone, as though speaking to a toddler.
“I am downstairs. You are not.”
“No flies on you, Olly. That must be why you earn the big bucks.”
“The plan was for you to be down here by the time I returned,” he replies, audibly tamping down his frustration and ignoring his hated nickname.
Was that the sound of a molar chipping?
“I don’t know what to tell you. Plans change. Fashions change. Weather and hairstyles too. Nothing in this life is static.” Which is total bull, because I hit pause on my life the day I moved into this suite. The day I turned up at his door and asked, “Is this hell? Wow, I love what you’ve done with the place.”
It’s been two weeks of chauffeur-driven rides to Nora’s. Two weeks of yummy room service lunches, fancy spa visits, and late-afternoon siestas. Two weeks of champagne cocktails and fancy dinners out, all in Oliver’s quest to build our backstory.
“Thank you for sharing your philosophy. However, we agreed you’d meet me downstairs for dinner.”
“Did we agree?” I press my index finger into my cheek as though he can see me. “Wait. Was that before or after I said you’d regret blackmailing me into living with you?” My footsteps are barely audible as I cross the room to the French doors, pushing back the stylish window dressings. I step out onto the small Juliet balcony and look over the wrought iron railings down into the street. A sleek town car pulls up at the hotel entrance, the liveried doorman sedate in his progression to the passenger door. To the left of me somewhere is Buckingham Palace, to my right a hundred ritzy stores. Across the street, a man double-parks his bright-red midlife crisis Lamborghini as a woman in head-to-toe Gucci passes, using her $30,000 Birkin as her fluffy Pomeranian’s pet carrier. I love London, but this spot right here is a crazy-pants level of wealthy.
“Do we have to go through this every day?” he mutters as I move back into the suite.
Poor Oliver. Not. He sounds so weary. Yay!
“Every day? Maybe just until I get used to the idea.” It hasn’t been at all hard to get used to unlimited spa visits, bougie afternoon teas, and room service. If you’re going to decompress, where better than in a luxurious boutique hotel?
The break has given me time to think, to process things, and while I might not have been aware of Mitch’s wealth, it makes sense now. It’s not that I think all wealthy people are dirtbags and all the poor are virtuous, but I do know the rich live in a different kind of reality. It’s one that often leads to a disregard for those around them. Not to mention an inflated sense of self. Sweeping statements, sure, but they ring true when I look at what has happened, and what is happening, to me.
So here I am, keeping up a campaign of subtle annoyance. Nothing too damaging, because fair is fair. Ariana, the immigration lawyer Oliver set me up with, is amazing. And he was right—there’s no way I could’ve afforded her fees, let alone accessed them.
The acronym iykyk was probably created for her.
Anyway, yesterday I received notification that my visa application had been received. I’ve had my fingerprints taken, and I’ve submitted a photograph for my biometric card, the modern-day version of a visa stamp to a passport.
All systems are go: two weeks down. Ten more to go.
“Well, get used to it quickly,” Oliver bites, “or that fluffy-arsed monster is going back to the kennel.”
“Mr. Bojangles?” At his name, the labradoodle lying in the middle of the couch pauses in the act of cleaning his toe jam and looks up. “He’s no monster.”
“He’s a testicular terrorist in a fluffy suit.” Oliver’s clipped consonants shouldn’t dance along my spine like fingertips, but they do.
“Mr. Bo, it’s good you can’t hear what Olly is saying.” The dog tilts his head like he understands everything. And doesn’t give one single shit.
“To think I considered myself a dog person until he moved in.”
“Well, see, Bo is more person than dog. Except, people don’t punish you by peeing in your shoes for not sharing your hot dog.”
“He’d better not even think about it,” he mutters darkly.
Honestly, Bo looks like he’s plotting much worse, and I’m here for it.
“Oh, Mr. Bo.” I scratch his fluffy ear as I baby talk to him. “What did you do? Stick your nose in the mean ole man’s crotch again?” Jealous? Moi? Maybe a little bit. I don’t think I have a manipulation kink. I just have a thing for bossy-assed men like him.
“I am not old or mean, and he did not frighten me.”
I make a doubtful noise. “You’re kinda old, and there’s no disputing you have a mean streak. I mean, hello!”
“A matter of opinion, again. Unlike the mutt’s unbridled interest in my crotch.”
It is quite special, as I recall.
“But now that I come to think of it, I was feeling quite unkind this morning, waking to find I wasn’t alone. Again.” My shoulders move with silent laughter. I count that as the third time this week that he’s woken to Bo’s doggy breath. “Somehow this time the light was on.”
“Well, I didn’t do it.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes, Oliver, I’m sure I didn’t come into your room while it was still dark and turn on the light.” If I had crept into his room, it wouldn’t be the light I’d be interested in turning on. It’s good that I’m a rule follower, especially my own. “I mean, why would I? Such fun was had that one time I oh-so-wickedly turned on a light!”
“There’s no need for sarcasm.”
“I warned you Bo isn’t the kind of dog who does well in confined spaces.”
“That’s on you,” he gripes. “You insisted on making him part of this.”
I bite my knuckle gleefully. I love that I’m getting under his skin. I did make Bo part of the deal, but what isn’t my fault is how he’s too smart for his own good. Or how he’s a failed therapy dog. It’s also not my fault he was trained for his therapy role by inmates of an open prison, even if his delinquency can be traced back to there.
Nope, it’s totally not my fault a thief taught Bo all he knows.
“You can’t have expected me to just sit here all day long by myself.” Besides, he was driving Nora crazy. It was like a battle of wills at the sanctuary. “Bo is good company for me.” My gaze drops to the mutt. He’s a good listener. I especially like how he offers no opinions.
“A hotel is not a suitable environment for a dog.”
“Some hotels make exceptions. Especially hotels that you own.”
“At this rate, I won’t own it for long. Do you know he was found in the kitchens again yesterday? I’m told he devoured a tray of Wagyu steaks—”
“Ouch.” I’ve seen those on the menu at two hundred a pop.
“He also made short work of a whole Hereford rib eye before he was apprehended.”
“That must’ve happened when I was at the spa.” I thought he looked all lip-licking satisfied when I got back.
Oliver makes an interested noise in his throat. “What I’m hearing is it’s not so terrible living with me.”
“There are perks,” I agree reluctantly. “Though I guess you could snore less.” Wandering to my open bedroom door, I prop my shoulder to the frame and stare over the no-man’s-land of the living room toward the matte-black double doors to Oliver’s bedroom. We’re like opposing teams or enemies. Except for the fact that, after fourteen days of watching (and annoying) him, I sometimes think I would crawl naked to his bed if he asked me to. Not that he’s going to. I stipulated a no-sex arrangement, and those are the vibes I’ve been giving out. Even if it sometimes feels like self-sabotage. I have never wanted to screw someone so badly.
“No one else has ever complained before.” His implication pokes at my sternum like a sharp pin—other women. “I could stop breathing altogether, I suppose.”
“Let’s not rule it out,” I mutter, pushing away from the doorframe.
“Don’t you want to do it yourself?”
“Like, strangle you?”
“You could wrap your hands around my throat while you—”
“Nah. I’d just pick up the appropriate drugs from the dispensary?”
When he shoots those shots, I bat them away. It wouldn’t do to admit I still find him hot.
Lines might be crossed.
Rules might be broken.
And I’d most certainly be screwed—in more than one way.
Oliver is nothing if not imaginative.
“Meanwhile, perhaps you could make your way down to dinner. That wasn’t a suggestion, by the way.”
“Oh, a demand? Yes, sir, Mr. Deubel, sir. Right away! Oh, wait. You’re not the boss of me.”
“Eve.” He makes a warning of my name. It feels like a brush of delicious punishment. Ohhh, do it again, Olly. I kind of like it. “Sometimes I wonder if you truly want to stay in London.”
His meaning is like a coconut to the head—as in, not at all subtle. It’s a reminder of what’s at stake.
Yet I refuse to give him an inch. “Can I bring Bo?”
“Not unless you want the kitchen closed down by the health department.” He sighs heavily, and I press my hand to my rib cage to stem a strange pang. Is he about to terminate our agreement? “I have guests waiting.” His answer is oddly hesitant.
“Guests?” My heart lifts, like a balloon with cut strings. “Who?”
“My business partners. My friends.”
The balloon deflates, farting its way to the floor as I immediately understand what this is. He’s just building on the foundation stone of his deception.
Which is exactly what you signed up for, stupid.
“Sounds nice.” I try not to sound lukewarm as I glance down. “I’m in sweats.” Cute, cashmere sweats, thanks to my new capsule wardrobe, as curated by a stylist at Selfridges. Mitchell is still holding my belongings hostage, and hell will freeze over before I’ll be manipulated by him. I don’t often spend money on myself. I like clothes and try to buy things that will last over fast fashion. I’m also a fan of thrifting.
“Sweats?”
“Yes, lazy wear. And I haven’t washed my hair.”
“It doesn’t matter, and sweats are fine.”
“Only a man would say such a thing. Besides, your restaurant has a dress code.”
“The nice thing about owning places, as you pointed out, is I get to make the rules.”
“I’m not turning up in sweats while you and your friends sit there looking like you just stepped out of a GQ menswear feature, probably captioned ‘Hot Bros: Summer in the City.’”
“Like we what?” His answer is tremulous with laughter.
“Suit porn, Oliver. It’s a thing.” An annoying thing that makes me think very hot and naughty things. “Give me ten minutes.”
“It’s not a parade, Eve.”
“Oh, honey, how are you going to fool people into believing you have a fiancée when you talk like you’ve never even met a woman?”
“Fine,” he utters resignedly. “Just try not to be too long.”
“As sure as fiber forces flatulence from Mr. Bojangles’s bowels, I’ll be there within ten minutes.”
He harrumphs again, and just as I imagine he’s about to hang up, I add, “Oliver?”
“Yes?”
“I got there first!” I say as I gleefully hang up on him.