Chapter 3 Mila
Chapter 3
Mila
I consider sticking a finger in my ear and giving it an unladylike wiggle, because surely I misheard. Maybe she said they were getting married in space , which would be no less crazy than what I thought I heard.
I jolt suddenly as, next to me, laughter bursts from Fin’s chest. Loud and unapologetic, it’s like someone just told him the best joke.
“Evie, you crack me up.” He gives his head a slow shake; the kind that makes me think there’s some previous conversation behind it.
“I’m not joking.” But she is smiling, so maybe this is the kind of relationship they have. Maybe their friendship group is all about terrible jokes and winding each other up. Or maybe it’s a wedding tradition, sort of like the way a Cuban bride charges men to dance with her on her wedding day, the bills pinned to her dress much like they’re shoved into a stripper’s thong.
“In which case, you’re out of your fucking mind.”
So neither a joke nor a tradition. And the fact she still has her hand on his forearm seems less a sign of friendship and more an attempt to stop him running away.
“We don’t mean get married for real, obviously.” She gives what sounds like a pressure-filled titter. “Just pretend. You’d pretend to be the groom.” She turns to me. “And Mila would pretend to be me.”
“Me?” I squeak as a heavy stone plummets through my insides.
“Can’t have a wedding without a bride.” She smiles again, though this one looks more like a grimace.
“I can’t marry him!” I explode, my head swinging his way like a turret on a tank.
“Surely we haven’t found the one woman on the planet immune to your charms?” Oliver drawls.
“Pretty sure she’s aware of my charms,” Fin murmurs, sliding me a look that’s pure provocation.
My face bursts into flames—at least, that’s what it feels like—as I do a very solid impersonation of a guppy now. “B ... b ... but you have a mustache!”
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Evie puts in, “and I know that thing is a little off putting—”
“Leave the ’stache out of this,” Fin retorts.
“Are we hurting its feelings?” Oliver asks. “I wasn’t aware it was sentient.”
“If you really don’t want to do it,” Evie continues, ignoring the ridiculous conversation both men seem to insist on, “I understand. It’s just—”
“That this will likely be the last wedding you ever book after I blacken your name in the industry.”
“Oliver!” Evie whips around and slaps his arm. “Don’t be an asshole.”
“Yeah, Oliver. Take a day off,” Fin puts in with a grin.
“Honey, you can’t always make people do what you want,” she adds.
“I seem to have managed so far.”
“Not even,” she says, pressing her hand to her hip. “And not right now. Not with that attitude.”
“Eve, be reasonable.” Oliver lifts his hands to her shoulders. “We need decoys, and the clock is ticking. And just a tiny reminder, darling. This was your idea.”
“Of course it was!” Fin’s second outburst of laughter sounds incredulous.
“But I’m not gonna force her,” she maintains, as though there isn’t anyone else present. Let alone the person they’re trying to persuade. Desperately persuade , even?
“No one’s going to force me to do anything,” I put in, holding my hand up like a stop sign. “And also, Mr. Deubel, I don’t appreciate your threats.” I don’t have to listen to them either—not given the state my business is in.
“It’s not like she really has to marry him,” the grump grumps, still sparing no attention for anyone not Evie. “We’re offering the woman a week in paradise and fifty thousand pounds to exchange a few meaningless words with Fin and his furry friend.”
“Wedding vows aren’t meaningless!” Evie splutters.
“They are when you don’t mean them.”
“Excuse me.” I raise my hand again. This time like I’m in school. And a self-designated teacher’s pet. “Did you just say fifty thousand pounds?” Unless hearing things is a sign of true desperation.
Oliver’s icy-blue gaze cuts my way. “Oh, we don’t have to force anyone. Do we, Mila?”
“I didn’t say I was accepting your offer,” I retort, using the same tone. My heart thumps, and my mind begins to whir with the possibilities. If he’s serious, it would be fifty thousand reasons to take him up on his offer. While it’s not quite the style of success I was aiming for, it would help. Like a lifeline. I could improve my grandmother’s standard of living. Invest in my business, advertise, maybe. Could I be Fin’s fake bride for a few hours? It would be awkward, and I’m not much of an actress, but I could pretend to be into him for the right price.
Like you pretended in the coat closet?
Once more, the disdaining voice in my head sounds suspiciously like Ronny. That night was a one-off. But I can be professional. I’m not a slave to my impulses.
You’re so gonna need a chastity belt.
Evie pivots suddenly to face me, pressing her hand absently to her forehead. “I’m so sorry, Mila. I’ve gone about this all wrong. It sounds like we’re offering you a bribe, but that’s not right. Please accept my apology. I’m just a little overwhelmed.”
“I understand.” I understand rich people exist on another plane—another dimension. Who has fifty thousand to spend on this ridiculousness, bribe or not?
“You see, what Oliver meant to say is we’d be willing to pay you for your time. A bonus , I suppose you’d call it.”
“We would be so very grateful if you could help us out.” Oliver’s reiteration is almost toneless.
“I can’t tell you how disappointed we are not to be experiencing the day you’ve planned for us. And again, I’m so sorry to put you in this position.”
“Well, this is all fine.” Fin pulls a chair out from the carefully arranged rows and sits. “But isn’t anyone gonna try to persuade me?”
“No,” Oliver asserts flatly.
“I can’t believe you didn’t think to tell me about this harebrained scheme.” Fin folds his arms across his chest, crossing his long legs at the ankles. While the actions aren’t for my titillation, I can’t help but notice the way his shirt stretches taut over his biceps and the fine fabric of his pants molds to his thick thighs.
“We just want to get married without drama and drones flying around, taking our pictures and tainting our love.” Evie’s expression makes my heart ache.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Fin agrees begrudgingly.
“Please don’t blame Oliver. This was my idea, but it wasn’t really a plan. It was more like a wild stretch of the imagination. All this way, I kept hoping and praying the news we had before we left was wrong. Because this”—her hand indicates the space, the dais, and the endless azure view—“this was my dream wedding. Just us and the people we love, on the island we’ve come to adore. The piece of your heart you loaned us, for which we’ll be ever thankful for.”
Fin makes a noise—it sounds like capitulation—as he sits forward, dropping his elbows to his knees. “You’re an asshole,” he asserts, his gaze narrowed Oliver’s way. “You knew I wouldn’t be able to say no to her.”
“No one can.” Oliver doesn’t exactly sound happy about that fact. “When was the last time you had a vacation? Wouldn’t you like some time alone with your little friend?”
Fin slides his thumb and forefinger across his top-lip parasite. “You make me sound like a deviant,” he says, repeating the action, actively stroking the thing.
Why do I find the action mildly erotic?
Stop that, brain!
“You manage that all by yourself.” The corners of Oliver’s mouth tip, deep grooves suddenly bracketing it. Surely not laugh lines?
“I guess the business can cope without me for a few days.” Like an auctioneer bringing down his gavel, Fin slaps his hand on his thick thigh.
“I doubt the business will even notice,” Oliver murmurs in response.
“Could you enjoy this vacation in reasonably close proximity to Mila, do you think?” Evie’s tone turns tentative.
“What?” I ask, my attention whipping her way.
“Just a few days?” Evie holds up her hand, her thumb and forefinger an inch apart, her delivery tilting her statement into a question.
“My flight back to London is booked for Monday. I’m really not sure I can ...”
“But if they’re watching you,” Evie implores, “we might actually have a honeymoon. A few blissful days of peace.”
“You’re pushing your luck,” Fin grumbles, leaning into a hot reprimanding tone that doesn’t turn me on. If you discount the way my stomach flips, I suppose.
“I know,” Evie replies, all hope and big, pleading eyes.
“Fine.” Fin rolls his eyes dramatically, but it doesn’t hide his amusement.
“Oh, thank you!”
“Wait!” It has felt like watching the friends play table tennis; backhand one way, a volley return. But now it feels like I’ve swallowed the ball. “They’ll realize we aren’t you,” I splutter, as my panic spikes. I can’t stay here, and I can’t spend days hanging out with him . Lying around the pool in my swimsuit, eating dinner together and pretending to be in love. I’ve already thought way too much about him since our closet encounter—and he’ll guess! I mean obviously we won’t need to sleep together, because the resort has villas. Some of them have four bedrooms—two each! But close proximity might mean a slipup. Just look at what happened in that closet!
“No, I don’t think so,” Evie says equably.
“I don’t look a thing like you, and he doesn’t look at all like Mr. Deubel.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Fin drawls.
“I’m just saying you’re fair and ...” so very hot “... and he’s not.” My cheeks begin to burn as I swing to face Evie. “I could never pass for you.”
“But we’re roughly the same build.”
“What?” My eyes dip, then dart to her. Evie is lithe, built on athletic lines, and I’m ... fluffy. I prefer fluffy. Like a penguin right before their seasonal molt. But as no woman likes to point out her flaws to an audience, I go with “I’ve got to be four inches shorter.” Never mind several inches wider. And then there are my boobs. I have enough boobs for two women. Not four of them or anything, just a lot.
“You could wear heels.”
“And this?” I pull at a lock of hair that has fallen from my no-nonsense bun.
“I have a cathedral-length veil. Besides, women change their hair color all the time.”
“There’s no way I’d be able to squeeze into your dress.”
“Of course you could.”
Does this woman need glasses? But this is all beside the point. The real problem is I can’t be expected to spend days with Fin. Talk about awkward! I glance his way, expecting to find a little support or solidarity, not to find his gaze skating over my curves. The brush of it feels like a seductive caress.
“And even if I can fit into your dress,” I add, though some might call it clutching at straws, “what will you wear for your wedding?”
“I don’t care how I’m dressed. I just want to marry Oliver.”
“She’s got two,” Fin puts in flatly.
“What?” My attention bounces between the pair.
“She’s got two dresses.” He shoots Evie a pointed look. “Couldn’t make your mind up, could you?”
She bends forward with a cackle that she tries to smother with her hands. “It’s extravagant, I know,” she admits, pink cheeked. “But I only intend on doing this once.”
“It’s not too awful,” I find myself offering as I slip into professional-planner mode. “Chinese brides wear up to four dresses over the course of one day.”
“Well, now I don’t feel so wasteful.”
“Could we get back to the matter in hand?” Oliver practically shimmers with frustration.
“Oliver!” Evie chastises, sending me an apologetic glance. “Be nice to Mila before she jumps on the first boat out.”
But could I? Really? Because the more I think about it, the less likely that seems. The idea is crazy, and the experience will be awkward, and spending time with Fin will definitely hit some of my more tender spots. But compared to what I could gain—what that money would do to my life—those fears seem insignificant.
I could think of it as a holiday—a few days lying around the pool, brainstorming a new business plan. Given the collapse of my previous plan and this wedding catastrophe. And they want this. In fact, they’re desperate for my help.
“How long?” I glance up. “Exactly how long do you need me to stay on the island?”
My would-be bride and groom exchange a look, before Evie answers. “Until Friday.”
“Well, I’ll be missed at the office,” I begin. The office also known as my grandmother’s kitchen table. “And this is a busy period for me. Very busy.”
“Of course,” Evie says.
“Which is why we’d pay you fifty thousand—”
This is as far as Oliver gets, as, in a flash of daring, I cut him off.
“A hundred thousand.” I force my chin higher as Fin chuckles and Oliver quirks a haughty brow. “I’ll do it for a hundred thousand. I have appointments that I’ll need to reschedule,” I say, spinning my audacious tale out of thin air. “Potential clients who might not take kindly to such short notice.” I fold my arm across my front, cupping my elbow tight as I press a pondering finger to my lips. The truth is, the instinct to backtrack, to say I’ll take Oliver’s initial offer, is great. “Which, in turn, could ruin their trust in me. And, ultimately, their bookings. That’s potentially a loss of revenue for me.”
“And a hundred thousand pounds would remedy that?”
Oliver’s tone makes my heart thump in my throat.
“No.” This comes from Fin.
I pivot, ready to argue with him, anger a hot flare inside me. How dare he?
“It might cover your loss of man hours and revenue, but what about the damage to your reputation? Not to mention the potential for other unforeseen repercussions.”
My God. He’s on my side. But why?
“Yes, you’re right,” I say spikily. “I suppose I just didn’t want to look greedy.”
“It’s not greed. It’s just business,” he says easily. And the fact that he’s obviously quicker on his feet than me. “I’d say a quarter of a mil is nearer the number.” He gives a considering nod, like we’re talking about Tic Tacs and not a quarter of a million pounds.
A quarter of a million pounds! I almost do a happy dance. I could move my grandmother to a facility with facilities instead of overworked staff and run-down services—I could secure her a room in the place the nurse told me about! Oh, my days. I could rent a flat and an office! Maybe even hire an assistant. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
“I hate to say it, but you could be right,” I reply evenly and not at all as though I’m about to pee my pants in excitement.
“What do you think, Evie?” Fin directs a pensive look his friend’s way.
“Well . . .”
“Two hundred thousand,” Oliver bites out, cutting his fiancée off as he reaches for her hand, as though to say Don’t .
“That sounds fair,” she says with a soft smile. “What do you say, Mila? Does that sound like fair compensation?”
Two hundred thousand ways to get my life back on track. I can hardly believe it as I manage to croak out, “Done.”
“Apparently, I have been,” Oliver mutters.
“Not quite,” I murmur, thanks to this audacious streak. I may own a failing business, but that does not make me a failure. God, where is a pen and paper when you need them. I should write that shit down and make it my mantra.
Oliver gives an arctic twist of his lips, but his disapproval won’t put me off now.
Evie and Oliver’s wedding was supposed to be a turning point for Trousseau. It occurs to me it might still be.
I am the architect of my own life, I silently intone. And as the pair are still getting married, in part thanks to me, I should ...
“I want Trousseau, my company, named as the creative force behind your wedding. Your actual wedding. And I want to be credited in any statements or images you release.”
“Who says we’ll be releasing any?” Oliver murmurs as he straightens his cuffs.
“You will because you want to control the narrative,” I reply. “While also appeasing the press.”
“Of course we’ll do that,” Evie puts in, sending daggers her fiancé’s way. “Because it’s true.”
“Fine.” I swear her groom almost rolls his eyes. “We can attribute the success of our wedding as being down to you and your company. Any publicity will be carefully curated, painting your business in a favorable light.”
“Thank you.”
“As opposed to the negative kind of attention that will befall it should any of this get out.”
“I already signed an NDA,” I remind him. As if I’d ever admit to any of this.
“Thank you, Mila,” Evie says, reaching for my hand. “You can’t know what this means to us. To me.”
“Fin?” Oliver angles his gaze my pretend groom-to-be’s way. “What are friends for?”
“Stitching you up and shit talking your facial hair?” Fin replies, unfolding his large frame to stand. He glances my way, his expression inscrutable.
Finding me here must’ve been as much a shock to him as it was to me, though he’s certainly adept at rolling with the punches. But he didn’t have to do that, talk the price up. So why did he?
This all feels so bizarre. Unreal. Like any moment, one of them will yell Psych! and I’ll find out it’s all a joke. And I’ll probably cry as the pee-my-pants excitement turns to crushing disappointment.
But then, Fin reaches for my hand. My skin totally isn’t tingling at his touch, and his smile absolutely isn’t warming me from the inside out. Or so I tell myself.
It’s just a few extra days. I can cope with that.
My mind jumps from days to date , and I find myself biting back a silly grin. Baba would be so smug. But the date—today’s date—is just a coincidence. It’s not like she was right about the name of my supposed groom. What did she say it was, again? Not Fin, that’s for sure.
Baba, my very lovely but very strange grandmother, likes to think she has “the sight.” And about 50 percent of the time, it appears she has. But even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
When the old dear told me she had a vision, I didn’t pay much attention. Not even when she said she saw me in a white dress and insisted I’d still be getting married on the day Adam and I originally planned. Even though he’d already dumped me. I knew she wasn’t being cruel. It’s just her age and her recent diagnosis that makes her believe she read the same news in my coffee grounds.
But I don’t believe in any of that old-country stuff. Like how malicious fairies come out after midnight or how howling dogs are indicative of a death. I don’t have any beef with black cats and don’t believe a broken mirror brings bad luck, unless you count clearing up the mess.
I do wear the blue pendant she gave me when my parents passed, but that’s because it has sentimental value, not because I think it protects me from evil. It didn’t stop me from suffering a broken heart.
Still, if I ever did tell Baba about this, she would be smug. But then, she has dementia and recently moved in to a residential care home.
I’d better call them and explain I won’t be around for a few more days.
“If you need a hand getting into that dress ...”
Fin’s taunting tone pulls me from my introspection, back to the moment and the magnitude of what we’re about to do.
“That won’t be necessary,” I reply in a businesslike tone. Taunting and teasing aren’t part of this deal, and there will be no repeat of our closet encounter. Even if he did help increase my fee.
“It’s the least I can offer, given we’re about to get married.”
“Pretend married,” I retort. Realizing my hand is still in his, I pull it away, ignoring how the motion feels like a caress.
Clairvoyance, my backside. Unless Baba just forgot to mention my wedding day was fake.
“Pretend marriage,” he agrees, a smile leaking through his words. “Real kiss, though.”