Chapter 22
OLIVER
A Little Bird Told Us ...
“Good morning.” I steal a kiss to Eve’s cheek as she turns her phone over to hide the screen, though not before I catch a glimpse of that ridiculous gossip column. I choose not to comment on her reading habits, perhaps distracted by her hair, which resembles a messy bush.
“Morning.”
I smile at her reply as I pull out a chair at the dining table.
She swallows what appears to be a bite of melon before decorously pulling the sides of the branded hotel robe a little tighter. “I expect the coffee is cold now.”
“I wonder whose fault that would be?” Don’t judge her for her reading habits, but you do judge her, whispers an unwelcome voice in my ear.
“Yours, obviously,” she retorts, her eyes sparking gold in the morning sunlight. “You who hauled me into the shower this morning.”
Something powerful and heated bursts inside me as she slips the downy collar of her robe lower to reveal a sucking bite to her skin.
“ Hauled is such a strong word.” I push away the soft whisper of hypocrite as I swipe my finger gently over the evidence of my desire. Desire, yes, but how I felt in the moments before was more complex. I envied and I coveted. I wanted to punish. To possess. To own.
I wanted to swallow her whole.
“Oh, it was the right word, all right.” Eve ducks her head, concealing her smile but not her pink cheeks as she adds, “Just look at the state of my hair.”
I stifle a smile as I snag the coffeepot, pouring the lukewarm liquid into my cup as an image flashes in my head: Eve on her knees, her hair darkened by water from the shower, my hands tangled in the strands. Her lashes flutter, her gaze full of the power she holds over me.
Fuck. The coffeepot hits the stand heavily as I set it down.
It’s just sex, I caution silently. Not even actual sex—no penetration. Unless I count my tongue in her—
My heart races, my thoughts chasing after it. It’s just because she’s here. Available. We’re just using each other, enjoying the advantages of proximity. There’s no power. No knowledge. No stirrings of love.
Because love gives someone the power to break you.
It’s a timely reminder.
“I can’t blame you completely,” Eve adds, obliviously patting her hair. As she narrows her gaze on the mutt resting by her chair, I’m brought out of my head.
How is the dog to blame?
“He’s cleverer than you give him credit for,” she says, intuiting my thoughts.
I lift my cup. She attributes more intelligence to Bo than is due. “I don’t quite know how to put this, but you do remember he licked my arsehole?”
“I didn’t say he didn’t have fetishes.” She barely gets the words out for her giggles. “He is smart—I know he’s hidden my brush. He probably confused it for his. He hates any kind of grooming.”
Ah, well, that makes sense now. “So you’re saying he’s both devious and kinky.” I try not to grimace at my mouthful of cold coffee.
“I’m saying those are traits he picked up here. You did drag me into the shower this morning.”
“If you weren’t such a Peeping Tom, you wouldn’t have been there in the first place.” It wasn’t quite shower sex, more soapy fun. Fingers, lips, and tongues. Kissing and rubbing in all the right places. We’d showered together last night, once I’d stopped cursing and she’d stopped dying from laughter, then spent the night in my bed. I’m not even sad the time was spent sleeping, because Eve Fairfax is a delightful snuggler. It was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time, not that it means anything. Eve might be too good for Atherton, but she is not meant for me.
Reaching for the bowl of blueberries, she lobs one in my direction. I catch it in my mouth.
“Asshole,” she says, not at all like she means it.
“Was that an offer?”
“What?”
I pat the table. “Bend over, and I’ll tongue your delectable rear.” Fuck it too.
“Oliver, don’t.”
“If you don’t try, how will you know if you’re into it?”
“I don’t remember Bo inviting you to bend over the table.”
“Funny. I prefer red-gold Americans over goldendoodles, especially ones whose taste I could drown in.” Under the table, my cock begins to stiffen.
“We’re not ...” Her expression falters. “That was ... a onetime thing.”
I find myself smiling and frowning at the same time. I’m not confused. I just don’t think she really means it. I thought we reached an understanding as she took my extended hand and stepped into the shower this morning. I thought we put only tonight behind us. Fuck it, I want more than last night. I want this morning, tonight, Tuesday next week. I want—
I halt the thought. Breathe. Pause. Reevaluate.
I want her. Want to experience every inch of her from now until I have the keys to Northaby House. Because that’s the way it has to be.
“Tell me what the problem is, Eve.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” She twitches the linen napkin next to her plate.
“I like you, and maybe I flatter myself, but I think you like me too.”
She slides me a skeptical look, but I push on, because fuck that.
“Why does sex between us need to be an issue?”
“We didn’t have sex.” Her denial falls quickly. “This isn’t a relationship, or even a situationship—this isn’t anything.”
“You were happy not to define things last night.”
“But I did define it. I had to. Because you didn’t ask me to move in with you for those kinds of reasons. Hell, you didn’t even ask me to move in. This ... line crossing is dangerous. We’re not friends, Oliver.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“We’re not even roommates.”
“Yes, okay, I forced your hand,” I say, tamping back my frustration. “But hasn’t being here with me worked out for you? I’ve given you a place to stay—”
“ Given isn’t the description I’d use.”
“I’ve shielded you from Mitchell and gone to considerable trouble and expense to smooth over the issues with your visa.”
“You aren’t doing me a favor. At best, it was part of our agreement.”
“All right, that’s true, but at least I can be honest. I can admit to liking you. I like having you here.” A thorned knot catches in my chest, and I know I sound like a petulant child.
“Well, there will be no more having after this morning,” she says, snatching up the silver dome housing a toast rack. “This will be a strictly platonic arrangement from here on in.”
“That’s a shame,” I murmur, as my brain refers to my earlier statement: fuck that. Sex is like that jar of chocolate spread her hand hovers over. Once the seal is broken, there’s no stopping you from dipping back in. I frown as I watch her select the peanut butter instead.
“What?” she demands, catching me studying her.
The table is set with white linens and fine china, sparkling glass and silverware. There’s even a tasteful flower centerpiece. It’s all a little theatrical, and none of this is for me. Breakfast before Eve was usually something eaten on the go. These days, I find I’m happy to linger. She’s a pain in the arse in a lot of ways: impulsive, slightly chaotic, and as stubborn as a box of rocks; but I find my day is greatly improved by watching Eve put things into her mouth. Her hair seems to have a light and life of its own in the morning sunshine. I enjoy watching as she slides it to one side before addressing her meal. The action reminds me of a barrister slipping on her wig or a chef strapping on an apron: a signal that she means business.
Maybe the breakfast theater is a little about me after all.
Her face is so animated, and I find I could watch her talk for hours just to see the shapes her luscious mouth makes. I even enjoy watching her garnish her toast. She has such elegant hands, and her fingers exhibit such grace in their application of the gloopy, sand-colored substance.
Yes, breakfast times are a joy. If only I could offer her the same pleasure, because it seems soapy shower time has not improved her mood.
“Stop watching,” she murmurs, licking stickiness from her fingers.
“Today isn’t a chocolate day?” I ask, ignoring my thickening cock.
She looks up without raising her head, her pleasure subdued but evident. “Creeper.”
“I prefer observant .”
“Observe that I wanted a change.”
“Fair enough. Do you have an evening dress?” I ask after a pause.
“What for?” Her eyes turn suspicious.
“There’s an event coming up in a couple of weeks we’ll attend.”
“Let me guess. I’ve passed the friends test, so you’re stepping things up.”
“If you like,” I answer simply, forcing my thoughts from enjoyment to purpose. Just because I haven’t issued her a written schedule doesn’t mean we aren’t on a tight timeline.
“And I guess with you being so forthcoming in the information stakes right now, this is about the guy with the house—the estate?”
“Yes.” I give in to a smile. “How perceptive of you.”
“Not even, because I still don’t know how you think I’m going to be able to convince him to sell you the place. I feel like I’m missing something.”
A pinprick of discomfort pokes at my chest. I rub it like an itch. “Just remember our backstory, and be yourself.” I look down at my cup, twisting the handle twenty degrees. The way I find myself watching her sometimes makes me think he won’t take much persuading.
Eve applies her attention to her toast again. With violence this time.
“Are you worried?”
“About lying to someone who hasn’t done anything to me, anything at all? What would make you think that?”
“I’m sorry,” I say impulsively. Worse, I think I mean it. “I’m sorry you got caught up in this.”
“Sorry enough to let me leave?”
“Eve,” I chastise. “You’re hardly my captive. You can leave anytime.”
“Back to Connecticut,” she mutters.
“That would be your alternative.” I’m not sorry about keeping her here. I can’t see how I’ll ever regret it.
“I guess you’re holding up your part of this ridiculous bargain,” she mutters, more like an insult than a concession.
“You’re not going to have much toast left at this rate,” I remark as she continues to attack the slice like it insulted her.
With a pointed look, she violently bites off one corner.
“I’m glad you aren’t thinking of me.”
Her throat moves with a deep swallow as she sets it back to her plate. “Mitch can’t eat peanut butter,” she announces, seemingly out of nowhere. At his invasion, an iron fist tightens around my entrails. “He’s allergic.”
“Very badly?”
She flicks a shoulder. “He carries an EpiPen with him wherever he goes.”
“What a shame.” As in, what a shame I hadn’t known this earlier.
“The shame is I gave up more than peanut butter for him. I like peanut butter. I hate my ex.”
“That’s understandable.” This is a first, the mention of hate. And a first for me, as I realize I’ve been unfair to her, simply because she hasn’t been angry enough for my liking.
“I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone before,” she says with a brittle smile. “But here I am, eating peanut butter while imagining him suffering a painful death.”
I laugh, though turn it into a cough. I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her. I think it might be relief. It isn’t all me—it might not even be half my fault.
Except, I’ve treated her little better than the arsehole did.
“That’s bad, isn’t it?” Her expression twists comically.
“No worse than death by cab.”
“I love peanut butter, but not for the taste. I love it because of what it might do to him.” She examines her toast, then slides me a provocative glance. “Aren’t you going to ask why today?”
“I’m almost frightened to.”
“Liar.” Now satisfaction flickers across her face. “He cheated on me. Humiliated me. Wasted my time and my energy.” No mention of love. “But it’s only this morning that I feel like I could watch him choke.”
“Delayed grief?” I hedge.
“Oh, I’m not grieving,” she says. “I’m pissed.” Reaching for her phone, she slides her thumb across the screen. She offers it to me. “This is the same gossip column you showed me.”
“Yes, I know.” No need to mention I’ve been keeping an eye on it.
A Little Bird Told Us ...
Mitch Atherton, property developer and cheating Pulse Tok groom, suggests he might not have been the only one in the relationship up to no good.
“Remember the first day you turned up at the clinic? There was a woman there. A journalist.” I nod, and Eve carries on. “Una Smith. I guess she decided, when I wouldn’t speak to her, she’d get her scoop from another horse’s mouth.”
“Or in this case, a horse’s arse,” I murmur, returning to scanning the text, the crux of which is:
Mitchell admits he cheated.
He agrees he deserved being abandoned at the altar.
Very big of him, especially when:
He denies he deserved the level of humiliation he was served.
The absolute wanker.
He also implies that Eve might also have been unfaithful after he found her being whisked from the scene by another man.
He stops short of naming me. He knows I’d sue him just for the hell of it. But Eve. Ah, Eve. What a shit Atherton is.
“This is nothing to worry about. Anyone with half a brain would see this for what it is.”
“I still hate him.”
“As is your right.”
“Did you see the post before it? Scroll down a little.”
I do, though this time, I’m prepared. Unlike last night. My expression barely flickers at the image of Eve looking all kinds of lovely, her hand resting over Fin’s. Despite my outward calm, internally I still feel fiery. Which is ludicrous, given she barely tapped Fin’s hand in reprimand to some stupid comment he made.
“Silly, isn’t it?”
“Absurd,” I answer, surprised by the evenness of my tone.
“You’re not worried it’ll cause a glitch in our relationship matrix?”
“No.” I try not to frown. “But it is borderline libelous.”
“We should sue their asses, then make Mitchell choke on my dick!” Her fist thumps the table, making the silverware dance. Bo barks and jumps up, trotting off to investigate the phantom knock on the door.
“I told you he’s not the brightest.” I could be referring to Bo or her ex. Or both.
“He is such a ...” Eve presses her fingers to her temples as though to stem a sudden ache. “This implies I am as bad as him. I am nothing like him.”
“Of course you aren’t.”
“But people talk.” She can’t hide her concern as her eyes find mine.
“Gossip is the tax you pay for other people’s insecurities.” I reach out, cupping her cheek. “Your dignity can never be taken away from you, no matter what they say.”
“I like that.”
“Good, because it’s true. Fuck them, and fuck what they say. As for this”—I hand back her phone—“don’t give it another thought. Privacy laws in the UK are very strong. Perhaps my legal team can get an injunction. At least, stop them peddling more lies.”
“Do you think so?”
“I don’t see why not.” I make the mistake then of swallowing another mouthful of now-very-cold coffee before pushing back my chair.
“I know what you’re saying—that it doesn’t matter—but if you could get this taken down, I’d appreciate it so much.”
“Leave it with me.” I press my hand to her shoulder, taken aback as she reaches for it, and a pleasant warmth spreads through me.
How strange. It does feel good to sometimes be a Romeo.
“Andrew, get me Warner-Jones,” I say, striding through the office an hour later, the embers of Eve’s gratitude still warming my insides.
“She’s on holiday, Mr. Deubel. The Seychelles.”
“And that’s supposed to interest me why?” I pause, turning back to face him.
“No reason,” he replies. “I just thought I’d mention it. You know, in case you didn’t want to disturb her and her new wife on their honeymoon.”
“When you’re the source of her income, therefore the person who paid for her wedding, you can make that call. Until then, Andrew...” I point at the phone.
I pay my lawyer an exorbitant amount for her expertise. And for her office to be available to me whenever I need it.
“Got it. Oh, she did send this through for your approval already.”
I open the folio he hands me to find details of Eve’s visa application, then snap the thing shut as another thought hits. A less pleasant one. One that makes her warmth dim.
“Wait.” Andrew stills at my raised finger, unmoving as I process my idea. It’s one that’s very much at odds with what I promised Eve earlier. Romeo or not, this might prove a better payoff. “I want you to do something else for me instead. There’s a journalist by the name of Una something or other.” I wave away the details as insignificant. “She’s a freelance digital journalist, I understand, though she claims to write for the City Chronicle .”
While I understand Eve’s concerns, away from her, my mind is clearer; my own objectives are more pronounced. While my body might argue the case for her gratitude, my brain knows I have more pressing plans.
“ City Chronicle ,” Andrew repeats, noting the information in his iPad.
“I want you to set up a call with her. Today.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Which is why the call will be today, Andrew.”
“Right,” he affirms with a nod as I turn and make my way into my office.
“Well, good morning,” drawls an ironic tone.
My gaze moves to Fin, sprawled out on the Eames-style leather sofa. “You should come in more mornings,” I say. “It’s doing wonders for your term of address.”
“Want me to throw in a few my liege s? Come on, Oliver. No one likes an ass licker.”
I bite back a smile at the thought of last night’s events, striding to my desk.
“You’re thinking about ass licking in another sense.”
If he knew, I would never live it down. “Do you know that when your lips are moving, they rarely make any sense?”
“And when you’re yakking, all I hear is blah blah blah . Except, last night. Things were so clear, you didn’t have to use words.”
“Strange. I didn’t have a hangover when I woke this morning.”
“What?”
“Pillow talk. I’d have to be blind drunk, because you’re not my type.”
“Ah, but Eve is a whole other story. The way you looked at her said you’re down for licking her asshole.”
“Who’s licking whose hole?” Matt suddenly appears in my office, a company-branded construction hat in hand.
I drop the folio to my desk, tamping back a sudden sense of frustration. “Have you both confused my office for the playroom this morning?” I turn and lean back against it. “The crèche is on the third floor.”
“Our offices are on the third floor,” Matt returns.
“Exactly.”
“Our tiny cubbyholes with no fancy view over the park,” Fin laments.
“Your offices are vast.”
“We don’t each have a floor.”
“I own the building,” I mutter, lowering myself to the edge of my Linley-designed desk.
“Generational wealth is such a bore.” Matt grins, knowing full well that I won’t bite. Who’d complain about being left the kind of money you couldn’t spend in one lifetime? Well, Eve, obviously.
“Speaking of, when are you moving out of the hotel?” Fin asks.
“When the renovations are complete.”
“On which house? The shag pad or the place you just picked up on London’s most expensive street?”
“I thought that was the shag pad?” Matt interjects.
“The one we know about,” Fin taunts.
“Is today a national holiday?” I glance Fin’s way. “Is the circus in town?”
“Every day is a circus, working with you.” Sitting up, he reaches for his take-out coffee cup, allowing me a moment to study him. Fin’s job involves late nights and very few early mornings. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s come into the office trailing the events of the previous night behind him. On this occasion, he seems neither hungover nor drunk.
“Get fucked,” Matt mutters as I turn my attention to him. “I’ve been at work longer than the both of you.” He gestures to the hat. “And I’ve had to deal with the shite Tragic Mike’s been dishing out over at Westminster Council.”
“If he hears you calling him that, we’ll never get through planning.” Fin grins.
“Well, the eejit shouldn’t have stripped at the council staffers’ Christmas party then, should he? That fucker’s brains could explode, and it wouldn’t even mess up his hair.”
“Getting back to this morning,” I cut in, “what’s going on here? Did we plan a prayer meeting, or is this an impromptu circle jerk?”
“That’s more his thing.” Matt hooks a thumb in Fin’s direction, who laughs into his coffee cup.
“I mean, I like you both,” he says, setting it down, “but not that much.”
“I’m thinking this is more like an intervention.” With a frown, Matt drops to the other sofa. “I know that arsewipe Atherton deserves his head kicking in. And I was all for you putting the block on planning permission for the last three of his builds.”
“I’d like to know who you fucked to stop him,” Fin murmurs, impressed.
“I was even entertained when you had Fin swoop in and steal his Qatari investors,” Matt adds, ignoring him. “Though personally, I’m not sure it was worth the cost.”
“Because boy can they party,” Fin adds.
“But whatever it is you’re up to now, I can’t— we can’t,” Matt qualifies, his finger working like a metronome between the pair, “agree with it.”
Folding my arms across my chest, I stretch out my legs in a lounging sort of attitude. “Sadly for you both, I don’t require your consent.”
“What are you up to, Oliver?” Mirroring my stance, Fin lounges back, stretching his feet out. “Eve seems like a nice girl. She also seems far too levelheaded to get caught up in your bullshit. Willingly, at least.”
I make a show of looking at my watch as I drawl, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Is it Mortimer’s place?” Matt asks. “Last time we talked about it, you said he was running out of time. That he’d have no choice but to accept your offer.”
That was bravado. And before Eve fell into my lap. It was an opportunity too good to miss. An opportunity I’m enjoying more than I should.
“It’s taking longer than I’d like,” I say, pushing all thoughts of Eve away. “There’s also the risk some foreign-moneyed wide-eyed newlyweds might be struck by the romanticism of the place.”
“Nah,” he argues. “Just hang on in there. You’ll get it before long.”
“You’re not even interested in the place. Not really.” Fin shoots me a narrow-eyed glare. “But I bet you’re still using Eve to get it.”
“Ah, come on, Oliver,” Matt gripes. “The lass doesn’t deserve to be caught up in this.”
“Doesn’t she?” My tone is icy, the warmth in my chest subsiding.
“You know she doesn’t.”
“Then perhaps she shouldn’t have put herself at risk by almost marrying that prick.”
And there it is, back again. Cold hard clarity.