Chapter 39
EVIE
A Little Bird Told Us ...
that wedding bells could be sounding in the distance after a lovestruck billionaire begged residents of his hotel to give up their reservation so he could impress his future in-laws. The besotted businessman exchanged their table for four for a week in a swanky six-star Saint Kitts hotel!
Oh, Mr. Deubel, I have a table for six at Chipotle I’ll happily swap.
Call me!
I’m not sure which is crazier. The image of Oliver in a Chipotle restaurant or the idea we could be getting married, which is not even a little funny considering how we met.
I text Yara a quick thanks for sending me the link to the column’s so-called news. She thought the mention was hilarious—she didn’t even ask if it was true. But I guess the way rich people live is so fantastical, they might as well be aliens.
I try not to read the column these days, and I would’ve liked to have avoided any reminder of my parents’ visit. I’m still having cringey flashbacks weeks later. The things they said ... Urgh!
As I slide my phone back into my purse, I find myself wondering why Una Smith has such a hard-on for us as a couple, because according to Oliver, he had no hand in this. And I believe him. It’s too early to say he’s hugely reformed. I guess his heart is in the right place. Mostly.
Mine too. Mostly.
“I feel very suspicious when you’re sitting there, smiling to yourself.”
“Sorry?” I glance across at Oliver as the Bentley slows for a corner.
“Especially as we drive around Dalston. Care to explain why we’re here?”
“All will be revealed,” I reply mysteriously. If being mysterious includes giggling behind your hand and trying to disguise it as a cough.
He wants to know what I’m up to, meanwhile I’ve given up trying to figure him out. I know he still wants Northaby, but I’m confident he’ll do right by the animals. It’s no good taking them on if his heart isn’t in it. Better they find new homes.
Meanwhile, I know he won’t truly change his spots. He’ll always be up to something—it’s the nature of this man. This man I love. But I know I’m no angel either.
“I forgot to ask you.” I turn to him in the vein of someone just remembering something. “Did you bring your passport?”
“What for?”
“Well, this is unfamiliar territory.”
“Dalston or the fact that you’re in charge?”
“Oh, I’m always in charge. I’m the girl behind the curtain.”
“Pulling strings? That sounds frighteningly familiar.”
“Does our intrepid traveler have his passport as he sets out on his quest to explore the deepest, darkest corners of East London?”
Oliver spikes a brow at my deep-toned nature-documentary-style narration.
“Oh, come on! When was the last time you ventured farther than Shoreditch?”
“Sometimes I forget you think you’re hilarious,” he says, turning to the window as the Bentley stops at a red light. He eyes the pub on the corner, baskets of brightly colored begonias teeming from it.
“But then I remind you.”
His chest expands in preparation for a deep sigh. “Yes. Yes, you do.” But he can’t quite hide his smile. “I have a creeping suspicion this has something to do with my outfit for Mandy’s ball.”
“Perceptive.” It is only a few days away.
“Perceptive enough to know you’re going in the wrong direction. My tailor is nowhere near here.” His gaze slides doubtfully to the window again.
“Here’s the thing. We’re not going to your tailor.”
“Shock.”
“I thought you’d feel like that about it.” I almost wiggle in my seat, excitement bouncing around my insides like bubbles in a pop bottle. “But fair is fair. I so dutifully wore the dress you chose for me.” I slide my hand over my thighs, straightening a rumple in my skirt.
“Frankly, I thought you’d forgotten about it.”
“Hoped, you mean.”
“I distinctly remember you agreed to speak to my tailor.”
“So fussy. Relax! I have everything in hand.”
“That’s not as reassuring as you might think.”
“I called in to your tailor,” I say, patting his thigh. Yum. “I picked up your measurements.”
“For something off the rack?” he says, as though holding it at arm’s length between a pinched finger and thumb.
“Don’t make me spoil this surprise.” I give a slow, disappointed shake of my head.
“The surprise in Dalston,” he deadpans.
“I think you’ll love it.” I know I will.
I’ve put a lot of thought into this afternoon. Undertaken a lot of research, and as the car slows to a halt at the address I’ve given Ted, I turn to take in the full effect on Oliver’s face.
“A charity shop?” His expression is as dark as thunder.
“We call them Goodwill stores back home.” At this, his head jerks my way, and he looks at me as though I’ve grown a second head. A much uglier second head.
“My goodwill is something that’s diminishing by the second,” he mutters.
“It’s one of the biggest in London,” I say, ignoring him to look at the window display. Wouldn’t do to laugh at him.
There’s a leather sofa in the long window, a fluffy afghan throw over the back. The aging credenza next to it houses a tea set with a garish pattern, white crocheted doilies sitting under each piece. There are literally hundreds of stores like this around London, but some of them—especially the ones closer to Oliver’s hotel—are too fancy for my current purposes. For example, the thrift store in Notting Hill had a Boss suit in the window for seventy quid!
So I expanded my search to include anywhere that might stock the opposite of designer wear in my quest to get him back for the dress. The very lovely dress that made me feel like a supermodel, but that’s not the point. Because the point is, he’s not supposed to make decisions on my behalf. Even if he thinks those decisions will benefit me. I choose my own clothes and pay my own way.
This is just a small reality check for the man, especially as I’ve received notification that my biometric card is in the mail. I’ve been granted my visa—weeks earlier than the forecast. I haven’t told Oliver, and if Ariana, the immigration lawyer, notified him, he hasn’t said.
We haven’t ironed out what happens after. Maybe we’re both trying not to burst this bubble. But we need to discuss what our relationship will look like. I’ll tell him about my visa. Soon. I’ll have to. But today, I guess I wanted to prove that things won’t change.
“This is unacceptable, Eve.”
“Too bad, so sad. Get your butt out of the car.”
“This was not what we agreed.”
“I don’t remember agreeing you could pick out a dress for me, and don’t invoke the stylist, because that’s just a technicality.”
“I was trying to help.”
“Hello!” I singsong. “Same here.”
“No, Eve, you are shit stirring,” he growls.
I press a hand to my offended chest. Moi?
“Yes, you! Causing trouble. Having fun at my expense and—”
“Sir, we’re parked in a loading zone.” Oliver frowns Ted’s way as he adds, “I reckon we might get clamped, maybe even impounded?”
Good one, Ted. Oliver climbs slowly from the car.
“You’re so tetchy.” That sounded a little too gleeful. The way he glares at me says he heard it too. “It’s not like I’d let you go to this thing looking stupid.”
“The fact that I’m here does not mean I will be wearing clothing purchased out of ...” He turns his head, glances at the storefront, and apparently pretends not to know what it is. “That place.”
“No.” I hold up a finger. “No givesies backsies. You said—”
“In this instance, it would be takesies backsies ,” he utters with a ghost of a smile. “It’s starting to rain. Let’s go inside and get this over with.”
I almost break out the happy dance when I remember something. “Wait.” Oliver turns, his hand on the door handle. “Say cheese!” I snap a pic with my phone.
“What was that for?”
“Pictures or it never happened, Mr. Fancy Pants.”
“The only thing I fancy is getting this over with.” An old-fashioned bell chimes above the door as Oliver pushes it.
This is going better than I ever imagined.
Shit stirring?
Troublemaking?
Enjoying the heck out of myself?
Yes, yes, yes!
“Hi.” I greet the assistant with a bright smile before I almost bump into Oliver, whose feet seem to have turned into concrete. “What the f—”
“Fabulousness!” I shout, drowning out his growly dissent with enthusiasm and a sudden jazz-hands movement.
“You’re not the first person to be taken aback by the size of this place,” the store assistant offers happily, glancing up from the counter.
This place is huge. I guess this floor must be for homewares, as lounge and dining settings are dotted about the space, the rear wall filled with racks of plates and bowls and kitchenware.
I kind of love thrifting, though I don’t get to do it often. But when I do, I always come back with at least one gem. Which is why I stick my hand into a nearby wire basket overflowing with chunky glassware. Is that a novelty sherry glass? I yank my hand back, because nope. That thing looks more like a butt plug.
“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
I turn my attention to the woman, her hair a shade of gray closer to lilac. I love how stores like this are almost exclusively manned by older friendly women. Trendier thrift stores, those run by hipsters and retro-loving cool kids, seem to have the vibe all wrong.
There’s something comforting about thrifting, not just because I’m doing my bit to fight fast fashion and landfills. And who doesn’t want to do their bit for curing cancer, helping the homeless, and saving animals? But it’s more than that for me. It’s the idea of the unwanted finding a new home, being recycled, reused, and reloved. Or maybe it’s flipping the bird to how I was raised. Who knows?
“Could you direct me to the men’s section, please?”
Oliver grunts, and the poor assistant’s eyes fly wide.
“Pay him no mind. He’s just stressed. You know what it’s like when you’re time poor but you need a new outfit for the weekend. Worst feeling in the world, right?”
Oliver glowers.
“No need to explain, dear. My Arthur used to sulk like a sullen baby when he had to go shopping with me.” Oliver’s attention spikes to the woman. “That’s it,” she says. “That’s the exact face he used to pull. I bet he’s still pulling it in his coffin. Anyway, menswear is in the basement.” She looks down at her ledger, and I swear she adds under her breath, “Same place as Arthur went.” However, it’s not her ledger that draws my attention but the laminated cards stuck to the front of the counter.
N O B ACKPACKS . N O S HOPPING B AGS .
“We’ve had a lot of theft lately.”
My attention shifts back. “In a charity shop?”
“Times are tough,” she says with a shrug. “Also, people are bastards.”
“Well, I just have my purse.”
“Wait.” Oliver reaches to his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and peels out a fifty-pound note. “Consider it insurance,” he says, putting it on the counter. He turns his dark look my way. “Let’s get this over with.”
“That was generous of you,” I say as he wanders ahead.
“What do you suppose her title is?” He throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Door dragon? Member number one of the unwelcoming party?”
“Be nice. This is a charity shop.”
“My charity extends to that fifty and to ten minutes. That’s how long you have to torture me.”
“Sounds kinky.”
“If I get flea bites—”
“Such a snob!” I say as we approach the staircase down. “Bo’s fleas seem to know better, so I’m sure you’ll be fine. Your blood is probably too bitter for flea tastes.”
“But not for yours,” he says slinging his arm around my waist, hauling me against him. “Do you think your sweetness and light balance me out?”
“Of course. Aren’t you glad you found me?”
“Oh, I count my lucky stars daily,” he whispers, making me shiver when he presses a kiss behind my ear. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Stop! This will be fun, and no different to an hour spent wandering around Harrods or Harvey Nicks.”
“I don’t shop. I have people who do that for me.”
“Well, you’re shopping today, crabby ass, like it or not. You’re so stuck up.”
“Refusing to rake through other people’s castoffs in a place that smells like mothballs and old socks does not make me stuck up.”
“Shut up,” I snipe, grabbing a random item from the nearest rail. I thrust it at him. “Go and try that on.”
“On?” His brow spikes, then he glances at what turns out to be a gray T-shirt. It’s going to be too small, I can see, but it serves him right.
“Yes. Take off posh threads, and put on T-shirt.” Asshole, I add in my head.
“And this is what you want me to wear to an exclusive charity gala?”
“Wouldn’t that be perfect? Double-dipping in the charity stakes. Triple, if we count the fifty. Think of all the angels in heaven right now, smiling down at you.”
“A. Charity. Gala. Ball.” He annoyingly enunciates each word.
“Try. The. Frickin’. T-shirt. On.”
“This is like a bad dream.”
“Go, drama queen.” I point in the direction of the dressing rooms.
He doesn’t say fucker , but his expression does before he saunters in the direction of my outstretched finger.
I don’t particularly want to see him in a boring old T-shirt, but it beats having him follow me around, complaining. Grabbing this opportunity, I flick through the racks of shirts and sweaters, pausing to consider an ugly Christmas jumper for a moment but ultimately putting it back. I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when I see it. I turn from the rack when I see something hanging from the end of an aisle.
“Oh, my gosh! These are perfect!” All this moment is missing is a beam of heavenly light and a celestial choir! And just the right size. At a squeeze.
I’m almost giddy as I make my way to the men’s dressing rooms.
“Are you in here?” I whisper, not wanting to trespass into that (slightly feet funky) no-woman’s-land.
“Against my better judgment,” comes a familiar voice from a cubicle at the far end.
“Glad you didn’t run away.”
“I did think about it but decided you weren’t winning this one.”
Oh, but I am, I think, hooking the hanger of my prize over the door next to his. “Knock, knock! Are you decent?”
“I’ll never understand why people say knock, knock when they can just ... knock.” The door opens wide to Oliver’s unimpressed face. “As for decent? That depends entirely on your definition.”
I don’t answer or make a peep, mainly because I have both hands pasted over my mouth. Who would’ve thought a gray T-shirt could be so funny!
“What’s the verdict?”
I am loving what I’m seeing. I don’t know why, but I thought he’d still be cranky and maybe put it on over his shirt or something. But not so. His shirt and jacket are hanging from the peg in the wall, the T-shirt on his actual person.
This is such a beautiful moment.
“Is it bring-your-twink-to-the-office day?” I burst out, unable to stop my laughter. It could be the combination of those pants and those highly polished shoes that brings the thought to mind. I press my hands to my stomach. The icing on the cake of this outfit is the T-shirt, which is a mite too small. It doesn’t so much hug the bulk of his biceps as expose them, while revealing more than a sliver of skin at his waist. There’s also a cherry on top of the icing in the form of a chest pocket with a cartoon Japanese-style lucky cat peeking from the top. “You look so ... kawaī .”
“If you say so.”
“That’s Japanese for cute .”
In answer, he tugs at the pocket to reveal a hidden message: S HOW M E Y OUR K ITTIES .
I feel my mouth twist. “I don’t know what the Japanese word for less cute is.”
“Personally, I think it adds a little something.”
“You would.”
“Go on, then.” He hitches an expectant brow.
“What?” I press my hands over the girls. “Not even!”
“I think I deserve a little something for my compliance.”
“And I think you might’ve bumped your head.” I make to swing the door closed, when Oliver begins to make chicken noises.
“I am not flashing you in the Goodwill!” I hiss, swiping a look behind me to make sure no one is listening. And it’s then I hear the celestial choir. What a perfect accompaniment to that shirt.
“Kitty will be very disappointed,” he purrs. Unironically.
“The kitty wants to see my titties?”
“Let’s go with that.”
“What’s it worth?” I ask, swinging the door to the cubicle back and forth a little. It wouldn’t do to show my hand.
“Oh, God.” He straightens, his expression suddenly firming. “What are you up to?”
“Why do I have to be up to anything?” I answer innocently.
“I ask myself the same question. Regularly. And the best I can come up with is this is your version of pulling my pigtails.” His voice goes husky as he reaches out, the backs of his fingers a gentle caress against my cheek. “In other words, this is your love language.”
In the name of a tap-dancing Jesus, he might be right. He’s turned me kinky! I’ve never wanted to tease or torment men before—I’ve never experienced the levels of gratification I do when I’m driving him up the wall. God, I love this man. So much.
My eyes turn soft, my insides suddenly warm and gooey. All I want to do is hug him ... but I also really want to see him in this outfit. So I give my head a quick shake, bursting my little bubble of love forcibly.
“Want to try a little experiment?” I murmur, hopefully temptingly.
“Flash me your kitties, and I’ll think about it.”
“That just sounds wrong.”
“You could flash your pussy instead?”
“Keep your voice down! Honestly,” I mutter, pulling the hanger from the other door. Turning, I wind the fabric around it for concealment, and as I step into the cubicle, I the drop bundle to the floor and my bag on top of it. “If teasing is my love language, what’s yours?”
“This,” he says, hooking his finger to flash the message in his pocket again. “I’m waiting. Show me your pretty, pretty kitties.”
“Demands are your love language?”
He makes a chiding click of teeth and tongue. “Words of affirmation.”
My eyes on his, I undo the top button of my shirt. “Take off your pants.”
Oliver frowns. “I don’t think—”
My fingers flick another button open as I arch a little from the door. “If I’m putting up the goods, you should at least reciprocate a little.”
His throat works with a deep swallow as I languidly trail my hand over the (promising) bulge in his pants. He also eyes me doubtfully.
“Just a little peek,” I pout as I slip open another button on my shirt. “Who would’ve thought getting you out of your pants would be so hard.”
His mouth pinches in one corner, yet he reaches for his belt. Meanwhile, I unfasten the rest of the buttons until my shirt lies open at my sides. I glance down, my insides contracting powerfully at the sight. The sides of his pants are folded wide, his thick cock exposed, his hand wrapped around the root.
More than I bargained for, sure. But I am not disappointed.
“This is as far as I’m going,” he says. “I can’t believe we’re about to risk arrest for the second time.”
“It’s at least the third time. Besides, no one will see.”
He bats my hand away, making me realize I’d reached out.
“No touching,” he commands. “It’s my turn to affirm my love language.” He steps a little closer. The space is already limited, but when I hold my hand out, it’s not to stop him. “Your tits are amazing,” he says as his hand brushes up the sides of my ribs. Fire spreads across my skin as he takes my breasts between his hands, his thumbs swiping over my nipples, cursing as I echo his movements over the satin head of his cock. I know, I know. But is it any wonder I’m getting sidetracked?
“I’m so obsessed.” His thumbs hook into the fabric of my bra, and my breasts spill out. The heat of his mouth is shocking.
“I allow it,” I whisper shakily at the soft burst of his breath. I close my eyes, desperate for him to take me into his mouth again.
He doesn’t disappoint.
“Words of affirmation, physical touch, quality time, and acts of service. I have so many plans for your breasts.”
“I’m not sure how you’ll manage all that.” I swipe my thumb over his silken crown, making him groan.
“By fucking them. Coming all over them.” His words pound inside me in the sweetest of percussions, even as I reply. Though what I’m saying is anyone’s guess.
“That’s”— deliciously graphic —“specific,” I finish. I try to hang on to my wits as he unpicks them one by one, his tongue circling my nipples in shiver-inducing circles.
“Can I?” His voice is low and rough. I lick my lips, but before I can answer, he ups the ante a little more. “In the park in your T-shirt and your navy dress in the evening breeze. When I can see the shape of your nipples, it drives me to fucking distraction.”
His words, the picture he paints. I can’t help but see it too. I try to hang on to my plans, but it’s almost an impossibility.
“All I can think about is getting my mouth on them,” he whispers into my ear, “sucking them until they’re glossy and pink. I think of how good you’d look with my cock wedged between your fabulous tits.” Hot breath, hotter words, as his fingers coax and tease, making me leak more than brain fluid.
“Oh, God.” My body jolts. No, it’s not possible. I’m not about to orgasm from a little aural and some boob action! Yet my spine bows from the door as my insides pulse emptily. I roll my lips inward to contain my pleasure when from beyond the door, there comes a rattle of metal coat hangers and a weary-sounding huff.
“Here, John,” a woman mutters. “I found you a forty-inch waist. You might as well take them in with you.”
John’s response is unintelligible, though it’s in the tone of one who is long suffering. Not that I’m paying attention as Oliver covers my mouth with his. He pushes my hand from his cock to wedge his thick thigh between my legs. The door begins to rattle at my back as I burst from my skin. Oh, my good Lord. I am a deviant, I think as I pulse and twist, as I come apart before the backdrop of a mild domestic argument. In a thrift store!
As I sink back into my skin, every inch of me seems to tingle.
“You know how I love you,” Oliver whispers, kissing his way across my jaw.
“When you’re so cruel?” My whine sounds a little hoarse.
“Inspired by it, more like.”
“You play dirty.”
“Says the woman who just got off in a charity shop.”
Urgh. That sounds so bad. I push his body from mine. I’ll show you embarrassment.
“What are you doing?” he asks as I yank his pants to his knees. He chuckles out my name as I slip my hand around his heel and lift. Unbalanced now, he slams his palms against opposite walls to stop himself from falling. “You really are determined to get my pants off, aren’t you, darling?”
“Yep.” I flip off his other shoe and tug his pants clean off. Meanwhile, Oliver can’t seem to do much for laughing. I scramble for my purse then thrust the mystery hanger at him.
His hands clutch the leather to his chest, and he stares at me as though I might’ve lost my mind. “What the—”
“I don’t want to hear another thing from you until you put those on.” Flipping the lock, I push the door open, slip out, and pull it closed before he can answer. As I turn, I realize I didn’t think this through so well.
“Hi!” I give a nervous wave to my audience, the motion brushing air across my bare midriff. “Oh.” Glancing down, I pull the sides of my shirt closed, relieved I’d at least put the girls away. “I like this one so much, I’m gonna wear it right now. It’s nice, right?”
The man standing in his boxer shorts just inside the door of the opposite cubicle closes his mouth, then nods dazedly. The woman pushing another pair of pants at him seems less invested in my babbling as her eyes fall to Oliver’s pants bundled in my hands.
“He needs a different size,” I say. “I’ll just go check the rack.”
“Your rack is perfect,” calls a cheerful Oliver from behind the door. “Kitty can verify!”
When I burst from my skin a second time, the sensation is not so pleasant.
I fasten my shirt, then loiter around the miscellaneous bins as I wait for the henpecked and henpecker to leave. I’m pretty sure Oliver won’t be going anywhere before then. I duck my head as they pass, then happily make my way back.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I whisper, tiptoeing into the men’s dressing rooms for the second time. Before I reach the door, it swings open. An invitation I take, practically jumping into the open space.
Oh the joy! The immense happiness. He’s not leaving but ... “It looks like you might be!”
“Be what?”
“Coming out!” I clasp my hands to my cheeks as I take him in. “Who knew you’d look this hot in leather pants!” Joined with a little crop top, it’s fair to say he does not look like himself. But it turns out an alternative-universe gender-fluid Oliver still revs my engine.
“Almost in leather pants,” he gripes with a small, uncomfortable jut of his hip. “They’re so tight, I can almost taste them. Do you realize how hard it was to get into these? They’re like fetish wear,” he says, turning to look at his ass in the mirror.
“I think I’m developing a fetish.” Because the leather hugs all the good bits. “Yes, turn around,” I demand, unable to wait as I press my hand to his hips. “Let me see that booty properly.”
“Stop that,” he mutters, slapping away my hands. “The only time you should see a man wearing leather pants should be when they’ve misplaced their motorbike.”
“How do you feel about assless chaps?” I ask. “You’d look amazing at a charity ball in them.”
“If you think I’m going anywhere in any kind of leather that isn’t footwear—”
“But I ordered you a crushed-velvet jacket in red to go with them! Bow tie too. Why did you think I got your tailor’s details?” This is the phrase that breaks me as I collapse against the cubicle doorframe, laughing so hard, I worry I might pee myself.
“Are you quite done?” Oliver asks, unmoved. I nod, wiping away my tears. “I can take these off?”
“I can’t believe you put them on.”
“What was I supposed to do? You buggered off with my trousers. I was only putting them on to follow you until ...” His gaze falls to his highly detailed crotch, and I start laughing all over again.