Chapter 7 Mila
Chapter 7
Mila
“Oh, my God.” With a groan, I rise like the bride of Dracula meeting midnight. So why is everything so blue and so bright? I shield my eyes from the cheery torment, wondering where the hell I am. Except ...
Was I at a wedding?
I give my head a shake. “ Oww. ” I press my hands to either side of my aching head. It feels like a vodka/dehydration-combo hangover. But I didn’t have a lot to drink—that much I at least remember. Then again, I’m not at university anymore, and it only takes a couple of vodka tonics to make me feel like this.
Not vodka tonics. Miniatures.
Was I working a wedding? Yeah, of course I was.
Weddings take up half of my waking thoughts, so—
Not a wedding, I realize with a lurch. The wedding.
Not my wedding, because that was canceled. And for once, my stomach doesn’t plummet with the recollection.
Was it Evie, the American vet, and her scarily posh fiancé? I think so, but even that doesn’t seem quite right.
Across the room, something glints, catching my eye: a half-drunk flute of champagne, the bottle lying on its side next to it. Well, that answers some of my questions. I turn my head, and I squint, thanks to the sun glaring from a sea of ivory tulle. A gown. A wedding gown. And what the hell is that on my hand?
I hold it out and stare at the thin gold band on the ring finger of my left hand.
Oh, God. I have so many more questions now.
And, just like that, the details begin to descend into my consciousness like the slow fall of glittering confetti.
A proposal. Strictly business.
A pretend bride. Me.
A promise worth two hundred thousand. A lifeline I could never have dreamed of.
A golden groom. The object of my fantasies come to life.
Sarai in a flowery dress. A priest in white robes. Words and chanting, incense burning. A rope binding our wrists. And then ...
Nothing.
What happened after that? Clearly something did happen, I think, glancing down and startling at my apparent nakedness. I reach for the sheet to pull it over my chest, the motion filling in one or two more blanks. I feel like I’ve undertaken a particularly punishing Pilates class, my muscles aching and well worked. But at the same time, I feel languid and sort of sated, swaddled in a satisfaction that has seeped through to my bones.
Clue number two is the spectacular love bite on my right breast, but the ringing bell of absolute obviousness is the very telling ache between my legs.
I’ve had sex. Enthusiastic sex. Which can only mean ...
I turn my head and squeak, dropping the sheet in favor of pressing both hands over my mouth.
Sweet Jesus, fucking hell! This is so much worse than I thought.
I fake married a man who’s practically a stranger, then went back to my room with an actual stranger! Because the head lying on the pillow next to mine—the head attached to a pair of finely defined shoulders and a muscled back—can’t be Fin DeWitt’s. It’s someone with much, much shorter hair.
That’s okay. The wedding wasn’t real. You’re not really a reckless adulterer, I reassure myself, even as I press my teeth to my fingernails.
Bleurgh! Gel nails. Not the same sensation. I glance around the room for something to breathe into instead. But not a condom packet. Or even two of them.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity-fuck!
What the hell have I done?
My chest heaves, my breaths too short to be of much benefit. I might not be an adulterer, but I’m definitely stupid. Stupidly reckless! How could I risk the lifeline the Deubels threw me?
God, I hope it was worth it. I hope the sex was amazing—out of this world. And that it’ll come back to me in some other way than this dense awareness between my legs. Because, if I’ve lost the chance to save my business, to give Baba some semblance of dignity in her twilight years, there must be a silver fucking lining! A memory at least of a wild night of sex that happened once upon a lifetime. Something to bring a twinkle to my eye when I’m old and gray. Because, I say again, sweet Jesus fucking hell, what have I done?
I’ve barely moved, yet the stranger begins to stir, the muscles in his broad back flexing subtly under an expanse of smooth, tan skin.
He could be a soldier. A marine? He’s got the buzz cut. Not to mention the physique. It’s a wild guess, but it’s all I’ve got, along with regrets; a foggy, empty head; and a case of rising anxiety.
He stretches, his arm extending to reveal a thick tricep, before he turns with the elegance of a breaching whale, landing on his back.
That mouth. Those eyes. And the way he’s looking at me. Maybe sex with a stranger would’ve been preferable.
“You seem to be having a whole conversation with yourself.” His voice is thick and husky as his back arcs, lifting from his shoulders with a stretch. There’s something entirely sexual about the motion, which I ignore. Along with his apparent nakedness beneath the sheet.
A naked Fin DeWitt is almost impossible to ignore.
“‘Conversation,’” I repeat. My thoughts are more like a dissertation. And the title of my thesis?
Questionable Choices, Lust, and Lapses in Judgment:
An Analysis of How I Seem Determined to Ruin My Own Life
“You’re giving off some manic energy,” Fin purrs.
I swallow. My throat feels so hoarse, like I’ve spent the night at a concert, singing at the top of my lungs. Let’s go with drunk singing show tunes as the reason both my throat and my jaw ache.
“We seem to have had sex,” I say, plucking the sheet higher up my chest.
“Does look that way, doesn’t it.”
He is entirely unbothered. Or entirely satisfied. Whatever that expression is, it causes an avalanche of words to fall from my mouth.
“I don’t know whether to flip cartwheels or completely freak out that I don’t remember. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We weren’t supposed to ... to ...”
“Fuck?”
Wow. The word throbs like a bruise in my core.
“Exactly. I didn’t get paid for this.” What? “Not that I want you to pay me, obviously. Because I’m not ... that is, what I mean is, for the record—”
“Whoa, whoa. No one is thinking that. Slow down. Take a breath, wifey.”
I rear back so fast, I know I’m giving double chin. I mean, wifey is bad enough, but his taunting expression is just too much.
“Pretend wifey,” I retort. Yeah, take that comeback ... because it’ll take me a few minutes to come up with a better one. And by that point it’ll be too late to deliver it. “And there’s no need to keep up the act when we’re alone.”
“Last night felt pretty real to me.”
To me too. Not that I remember. But the supporting evidence is hard to argue with. The heavy ache between my legs, my deliciously soupy limbs. It feels like I’ve taken part in a sex marathon. Not that I’ve ever been the participant in a sex marathon before. If that’s even a thing. Which I’m sure it isn’t. “So we definitely ...” I give a tiny nod, inviting him to fill in the blanks. “We ...”
“You don’t remember?” he asks, his voice sort of sleep husky.
“Some things.” I give a spiky shrug. “I remember we were in the dark.” Where the heck did that come from?
He leans in, his eyes shining as they meet mine. “What else?”
I moisten my lips as fragments of memory seem to rise like smoke between us. Taut breaths, quiet moans, the darkness amplifying my senses.
“You were kissing me,” I whisper. Oh ... It’s probably best I don’t mention which part of me I remember him kissing, because that didn’t happen during the ceremony.
“And?”
“Was there a bucket?”
He gives a low chuckle, and I gasp, clutching the sheet tighter as my cheeks burn hotter than a thousand suns.
“You know!” I accuse. “You know exactly what happened!”
“Maybe.”
“Please be serious. Did we—”
“Oh, we thoroughly consummated this union.” He moves his hand to his abs and gives a tiny wince.
Lord alive, I had sex with him. And I bet it was worth remembering. What I mean is, I am such an idiot! I make a tiny, hiccuping sob.
“You really don’t remember?” Something flickers in Fin’s expression: a flash of concern or maybe hurt? Whatever it is, it’s fleeting. There and then gone in an instant.
I shake my head. “I remember the wrist-tying thing, and then we drank from a coconut. After that, I just don’t know.” Is there such a thing as coconut poisoning? I begin to turn toward the nightstand—which is where my phone normally is—to offer my pleas at the great altar of Google. But I realize that would mean flashing him my bum, which is probably a bit like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted. But he’s not seeing it. Not again.
“But you weren’t drunk.” Fin half rolls to face me, propping himself on his elbow, a crease forming between his brows.
My stomach flips as I notice the thin gold band on his finger. “Where did we get the rings?”
“A jeweler. The concierge called for me.”
“Oh.” Keeping up appearances, I suppose. “Send me the bill and I’ll ... I’ll reimburse you for mine.” When I get my money from Oliver.
His expression gives a tiny flicker of annoyance. “How come you don’t remember? You only had one, maybe two glasses of champagne.”
I don’t answer as I mentally tally the mini vodkas in my head once again, but I know I didn’t have enough to make me black out.
“You were coherent, not messy. Though I was kind of surprised at how you threw yourself into the spirit of things.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Dancing and laughing and having fun.”
“I can be fun,” I say, feeling the sting of my perceived slight. “I know what fun feels like.” Life has just been tough lately, that’s all. “I’m not always uptight and—”
“Mila.” The way he says my name as he reaches for my hand. “I don’t think you’re uptight. What I’m saying is you weren’t drunk. You were lucid and articulate and, quite frankly, a little dominant.”
“What if I only seemed okay because you were under the influence of something too?” My attention snaps up. “Wait, what did you just say?”
“You practically dragged me into bed.”
“ That I doubt, sincerely,” I retort, sounding like a stuffy old maid. “Not that I hear it’s hard to persuade you.”
“Slut shaming, Mila. That is so passé .”
I ignore his mocking expression in favor of allowing my gaze to slide over him. Given the size disparity between us, how would that even work? Unless I rode him into the bedroom.
An image flashes in my head. Oh, God. I think I did. With a pretend lasso and much yeehawing.
“And I’m pretty sure there are photos to prove it.”
“You took photographs?” My heart dances a quickstep beat, but strangely, not with fear or offense.
“Wedding-night Mila would’ve been so into that. But I was talking about the wedding photographer. Pictures of you dragging me to the dance floor, you climbing into my lap. You stripping me out of my clothes ...”
“In public?” I give my head another painful shake. Oww. Serves me right for trying to locate that memory.
“We’ll leave that one to come back to you naturally.”
“No thanks.” Wow, Mila. Another excellent comeback. Maybe he doesn’t remember all of this—maybe he’s making it up just to get a reaction. “Look, what I’m trying to say is, last night, something happened to make me behave that way.”
“Agreed.” A smile spreads across his face, slow and rich, like spilled honey.
“Not you. Obviously.”
“If you say so.”
Urgh. Why does he have to be so bloody annoying. And so bloody hot.
“Why don’t I remember?” I murmur to myself. “I’m not hungover.” Apart from a sore head, but even one or two vodkas almost always give me a headache the next day.
I sense the weight of Fin’s gaze and glance up. His expression makes me feel like I’m being dissected.
“Do you remember any of the night?” he asks, his tone no longer flippant.
“Not much. I have some memories,” I admit. “Flashes mostly, but nothing concrete. I do have the sense that I enjoyed myself.” In other words, I know instinctively somehow that I wasn’t taken advantage of—that none of this is on him. “I have the sense I was happy, and you were ...” like a dream come to life. The reason I know is because I’ve spent months dreaming of him. “You were ... Fin? What happened to your hair?”
“You like it?” He lifts his arm to rub his hand over his head, his kiss-swollen lips fighting a grin. Not that I’m paying much attention, because, holy mother of biceps! And are those teeth marks?
He angles his head to look, and my stomach swoops.
Urgh. Whatever is responsible for last night is also to blame for my having said that aloud.
“Huh. So they are.” His gaze lifts, his gray eyes sort of silver in a shaft of sunlight. “I think that was the outcome of our pet name conversation.”
“I bit you? While we were having a conversation? About pets?”
“ Pillow talk might be a better description.”
“ Pillow —” I fold my lips inward and start again. “What pet name conversation?”
“We were coming up with terms of endearment, I guess. Names to call each other during the week so we don’t use our real names. You didn’t like my suggestion,” he adds in a low rumble.
“ Wifey? ” I retort. “What a surprise.”
“That was your choice. It was sugar tits you took exception to.”
I gasp and clutch the sheet tighter, and Fin’s gaze drops very deliberately from my face.
“I’d say it’s a little late for modesty,” he purrs, the backs of his fingers a tender caress to my arm. “Given I know how you taste.”
Between my legs begins to throb like it’s trying to send me a message in Morse code. A really angry message.
“Why was I holding hair clippers?” The question falls from my mouth as a flicker of memory escapes my hippocampus.
“You honestly don’t remember?”
My mouth works like a ventriloquist’s dummy as another image hits. There was a bucket! In the dark, he almost tripped over it.
“ Poor Fin kicked the bucket ,” I spluttered through a giggle.
“ There are worse ways to die. ” I can almost feel the memory of his large hands curling around my hips as he pressed my back to the wall.
“ Worse than in here? ”
The smell of bleach and disinfectant. The hiss of fabric as he slid down my body.
“ I’ll find heaven between your legs. ”
The hot look he sent me before my dress fell like a veil over his head.
“Were we in a cupboard?” I ask, ignoring the continued sensory element of this remembrance.
“The janitor’s closet.” His mouth tips up at one side. “On our way back to the suite, you decided we should relive our first meeting.”
“I wouldn’t—”
The velvet brush of his tongue. His hand on my stomach, holding me there. “ Oh, God. Fin, yes! ”
We danced and we kissed under a sky of black velvet sprinkled with diamonds. Happiness and pleasure twining and twirling between us like a ribbon of sweet connectedness. I had the most amazing pretend wedding, and it seems I loved every minute of it. Every minute of my wedding night too.
“Mila?”
I nod and swallow a mouthful of words I can’t say, let alone process. I was supposed to get married yesterday. For real. We’d booked historic Islington Town Hall for the ceremony, and I’d bought my wedding dress in the Christmas sales. Knee length and cute, it came with a matching bolero jacket. I’d even ordered a jaunty pillbox hat with a half veil. No princess gown for me, not for the low-key day we’d chosen.
But did we choose it, or did I just go along with Adam’s plans? It’s hard to be objective after seeing myself in Evie’s gown. Maybe I sold myself short when I settled for an old-fashioned double-decker bus as transport to our wedding breakfast. In Adam’s favorite pub, beer toasts in the place of champagne.
Fin reaches for my hand, but I pull it from his reach. “None of this explains why you cut your hair.”
“You didn’t like the color. Said that it didn’t suit me and that it didn’t matter if it was just temporary, because it had to go.”
“So you shaved it all off?” I splutter, incredulous.
“ I shaved it all off?” There’s a note of something in his tone that flusters me.
“Not that it doesn’t look good,” I add quickly. His shorn head makes him brutally good looking, all tan skin and knife-sharp cheekbones. “You have a nicely shaped head.”
“Thanks,” he answers, not bothering to hide his amusement.
“It shows off your bone structure.”
“My bone structure,” he repeats in an entirely different tone. One that makes me feel shivery and hot with a resonance of a night I can’t fully remember.
Trust me to have missed out on all the fun.
“I’m just saying it’s not horrific or anything,” I say, sounding prickly now. “I’m paying you a compliment.”
“You did that last night.”
“Oh. Right.”
“When you told me how good my head felt on the inside of your thighs.”
How annoying that he remembers more than me. Or maybe he doesn’t and he’s just filling in the blanks randomly.
“But why listen to me if it was just a temporary color? Why did you cut it?”
“I didn’t.”
I press my fingers to my chest in silent question. Fin nods, not bothering to hide how much he’s enjoying our exchange.
“That settles it. You might remember more than me, but you must’ve been under the influence of something too. Why else would you’ve handed me the clippers?”
He gives a tiny flicker-like shrug. “Maybe I’ve just never had a naked haircut before.”
“Were you naked?” He begins to smile, and my hand shoots out like a stop sign. “No need to answer that.”
“You kept your panties on.”
But not for long, I recall, as another image rises between us. Fin, bare chested, as I stand between the V of his legs. His hands cupping my hips, his gaze heavy lidded as his thumb skims over my nipple.
“But I think you had to put them back on first,” he says, pressing his hand to his chin as he feigns deep thought.
“Urgh!” I begin to inelegantly worm my way to the edge of the bed while keeping the sheet banded tight to my chest. “You are the worst,” I retort, throwing the words over my shoulder.
Error! Error! my feeble brain offers as the sheet slides from Fin’s body.
He makes no attempt to stop it, rather rolling onto his back and stretching out as though enjoying the glide of the high thread count somewhere sensitive. Or maybe to display its effect as the white cotton tents over his groin. And that is no half-erected yurt.
“All evidence points to you being correct,” he drawls, as he slides one hand under his head.
“Have you no shame?” I mutter, half-crouched, one foot on the floor and one bum cheek still connected to the mattress.
“None,” he replies quite happily.
Clutching the sheet at both the front and the back, I stand when the corner of a condom wrapper pokes me in the foot.
At least we were safe, I think, dragging the sheet in the direction of the bathroom.
Safe again, I think as I notice another. And another.
No wonder I’m shuffling.
“You’d better get used to it,” he calls happily after me.
“As if,” I snark back. “I choose not to be awed by your magnificence.”
“Magnificence.” The word brims with satisfaction as I reach the bathroom door, where I turn. Just to be sure he feels the full effect of my retort. Or so I tell myself.
“Feel free to make yourself decent while I’m gone.”
“Oh, it’s far too late for that, honeybuns,” he purrs, stretching along the bed like a cat.
But I am awed by his magnificence, and we both know it as I slam the bathroom door belatedly.