Chapter 8 Mila
Chapter 8
Mila
Twenty minutes later, I’m ready to emerge from the cavernous bathroom and face whatever the day—and my new torturer, Fin DeWitt—have to throw at me. I’m pink and scrubbed clean, smelling of expensive bathing products and minty fresh thanks to the complimentary eco toothbrush and paste. As I step gingerly across the tiles, I press my fingers to the sides of my aching jaw, rotating it a little, thanks to whatever went down last night.
Oh, the potential puns.
Fine, so I might not know what went down but at least I now know who . I push the knowledge away and ignore my stinging cheeks as I cinch the belt on the thick white robe I found hanging on a hook in the bathroom.
I give a quick twirl in the mirror. Honeybuns, he called me. Plural.
I pinch in a smile, silently admonishing myself as I slide my feet into an oversize pair of hotel slippers. Taking a deep breath, I pull the door open to ...
An anticlimactic slump.
The bed is empty, though the room is still trashed. Clothes seem to cover every surface, though they’re mostly his, considering I wore only four items of clothing yesterday. Maybe three? I don’t think I was wearing the veil when we reached the suite. And definitely not Sarai’s shoes.
Speaking of clothing, I don’t know how the heck I’m going to get back to my room. I don’t have anything to wear other than this robe and Evie’s wedding dress.
I turn to take in the stunning view over the Indian Ocean and wonder if I can arrange for the resort’s laundry service to clean and repair Evie’s gown before returning it to her London address. I’ve barely completed the thought when something snags my attention, and I do a double take. Is that my suitcase in the closet?
I find it is. And that it’s been unpacked, the contents now hanging from the rails. And looking quite sad. My small travel jewelry box and perfume have been arranged on the glass countertop and my undies and other stuff slotted into drawers.
I snap straight. Nope. This is not happening. I am not staying in the bridal suite this week—there’s only one bedroom! One bed. Our fake union might’ve been thoroughly consummated, but there’s no way I’m going in for seconds—or fourths? Fifths?
Swinging around, I stomp out of the closet, the slippers making an angry flip-flop sound. I’m so annoyed by the presumption of whoever is responsible for unpacking my small case. It’s a gross invasion of my privacy! Not to mention a touch embarrassing.
Whipping the wedding gown up from the floor, I’m hit by a wave of remembrance as I straighten. Fin brushing my hair over my shoulder. Unbuttoning this dress. Each inch of skin revealed kissed and complimented. I almost sense the weight of the fabric falling and hear the guttural sound he made as I turned.
He called me beautiful, and I tried to brush off the compliment, insisting he was the one too perfect to be real. Then I pressed my teeth to his pectoral muscle, as though to be sure he was.
My hand rises to my heated cheek. What must he think of me? I practically pounced on him like some desperate, feral thing.
From the swathes of tulle, something drops to the floor—papers, folded into a square. I stoop to pick them up, and I clamp the dress between my body and my elbow as I unfold the sheets. The first is a document in an unfamiliar script, but for my name. And Fin’s. And the second is—
“Oh. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, nooo !”
I drop the dress, almost tripping over it as I hurry into the living room, the papers clutched in my hand. “Fin? Fin!” I call desperately.
“What is it?” He steps into the suite from the private garden, fastening a downy white towel around his hips.
I halt, like I’ve slammed into a brick wall, because, horizontal, Fin was a temptation; but, vertical, Fin is a lot in my face. Almost literally. He is so well put together, every inch of him designed for the daylight. That face, the gold of his skin, and those shorn locks, all glistening.
But those lips of his? They were made for the night.
He reaches for the rope of muscle between his neck and shoulder, his forefinger disturbing the lazy path of a rivulet of water.
Not that I’m awed by his magnificence or anything. I can’t believe I said that, and I suffer through a second wave of embarrassment.
“My, my.” He begins to move closer with the grace and surety of a jungle cat. “What has your cheeks so pink, wifey?”
“High blood pressure, probably.” I ignore the imprint of my teeth and the heat of his sun-warmed skin as I press my hand to the center of his chest. Stop. Then I thrust the papers almost in his face.
His brows flicker. “What’s this?”
“Exactly. What is it?”
“It’s in Indonesian,” he says, unfurling the sheets. “And along with Japanese, I can’t—”
“This one.” Impatient, I pull the top sheet away so quickly, I’m surprised I don’t give either of us a paper cut.
“This is a marriage certificate.” His puzzled gaze lifts.
“That’s what I thought! Maybe because it has the words marriage certificate printed across the top.”
“Cute.”
“You know what isn’t cute? It appears that I’m married to someone called Phineas.”
“Huh.”
Why doesn’t he look even the tiniest bit uneasy? A man like him, Mr. London Player—wouldn’t he be running for the hills?
“So, Phineas would be me.”
“Phineas Alexander Gunning Colton DeWitt. Were you a really ugly baby, or did your parents just not like you?”
“I have it on good authority I was a delightful babe. I haven’t changed.”
I don’t so much roll my eyes as my whole body. Like a bad-tempered teenager, I mutter a string of curses under my breath.
“I thought you didn’t curse.”
“In case of emergencies, break swearing glass.” I mime a tiny-toffee-hammer pose. “Extreme circumstances call for extreme words.”
“Like during an extremely enjoyable orgasm?”
“Concentrate!” I demand, tapping the paper. “This. This can’t be real, can it? It’s got to be part of yesterday’s”—my eyes skate over him again, without my brain’s say-so—“shenanigans.”
“There were shenanigans?”
“Pay attention—enough with the flirty eyes and sex voice!”
His mouth lifts in a slow grin. “Sex voice?”
“Stay on topic,” I demand, pointing at the paper in his hand. My cheeks feel so fiery, they must be contributing to global warming.
“Well, these are our names, and that’s my signature.” He gives the paper another cursory glance.
“But it’s just something to make the marriage look legit. To make us look—” I shake my head and start again. “To make Evie and Oliver look like they were getting married for real. Right?” Yet the truth of the situation feels like an ache in the center of my chest.
“Our names, not theirs,” he says softly. “It looks like we did this, Mila. It looks like we got married.”
My shoulders sag. Just like Baba said. “But we can’t be!” I explode incredulously. Suddenly. But my bubble bursts in the face of his solemn expression. “It was a religious ceremony in a religion neither of us follow, in a country we don’t live in. How can that be legal?”
“It wasn’t religious, exactly.”
“Seemed pretty religious to me! The white robes and the ... the ... chanting and burning.” Granted, it was a while ago I last stepped into a church, but I see the similarities.
“It was spiritual, which is what Evie wanted.”
It was lovely, from the bits I remember. The soft chime of bells and melodic incantations and the elderly priest’s serene expression. I was nervous on my walk down to the altar, despite the mini vodkas, but I do remember feeling calmed (once I’d managed to kneel) like I was witnessing a ritual with history and meaning.
“It was a symbolic ceremony that isn’t legally binding—”
“That’s what I’m saying!” I wish I could say I feel relieved that he’s making my point for me. But his expression doesn’t exactly help.
“That’s why Oliver arranged for a senior member of the civil registrar’s office to attend. To marry them legally afterward.”
My brows pinch. “I don’t remember anyone like that being there.”
“You don’t seem to remember much though, do you?” His gaze dips to the papers in his hand.
That can’t be our marriage certificate. Or a translation. It just can’t be.
“I think we have to face facts.” He lifts his head, his eyes boring into mine, corkscrew sharp. “I signed this. And you signed it too.”
“But I didn’t mean to.” My hands lift, then fall, the motion one of futility.
“It’s just paperwork, Mila.”
“Legally binding paperwork!” I cry, pressing my hands to my cheeks. “I can’t be married. Not to you!”
“Wow.” His response is an unhappy-sounding chuckle.
“I didn’t mean it like that. But we barely know each other.” And then there’s the small but very freaky matter of yesterday’s date. How can that be anything but a bad omen? Urgh. I’m turning into Baba. “I’m sorry, but we just can’t be married. It’s that simple.”
“Saying it, repeating it, won’t change this.” His grip tightens on the certificate, his tone still even and not at all I’m sick of your histrionic shit.
But why isn’t he calling for his helicopter and running in the opposite direction? Fin DeWitt isn’t the marrying type, according to his besties, who made him sound like the king of commitment-phobes. Which is fine because I’m not interested in commitment. Or men. Or anything other than getting my life and business back on track.
What if being married nullifies the Deubels’ agreement—what if they refuse to pay?
“No.” I refuse to dwell as I snatch the certificate from Fin’s hand. “There has to be something we can do.” I spin away and head for the closet.
“Like what?” he calls after me in that slightly amused, half-taunting tone of his.
“I solve problems for a living,” I retort, pivoting to face him. “I once wrestled a groom’s ex to the ground when she turned up at the church in a wedding gown. If I have to go full WrestleMania to sort this out, I bloody well will!”
In the closet, I rifle through a couple of drawers for my underwear and slip my knickers on under the robe.
“I’d pay to see that.”
His voice sounds close, but I ignore it as I wiggle the cotton over my hips with as much dignity as a girl can muster.
“Also, government offices are closed today.”
I angle a frown over my shoulder to where Fin stands in the open doorway. He makes no attempt to hide his interest as he leans against the frame, his arms folded across his chest.
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” He makes a gesture, sort of, go ahead .
“At least turn around,” I demand in a huff.
“Seems kind of redundant, don’t you think?”
His answer and the way he’s looking at me make my insides squirmy and hot. It’s inconvenient that I find his brand of gives-no-fucks confidence so attractive. In fact, I sort of hate that it has this effect on me.
I’ve never had a thing for cocky men, and I’ve met plenty in the course of my job. City jerks and arrogant finance bros dressed in designer suits and expensive watches, their confidence elevated by obscene bonuses and ridiculous job titles. And sometimes illegal party favors.
Fin DeWitt is the king of their type—the supreme cock of the walk. And he knows how to push my buttons. It makes not one iota of sense that I kind of like that about him.
I’ve known rich people. I’ve run their events. I’ve often thought how nice it must be to view the world from such a lofty perch, because with money and material possessions comes security. A sense of belonging. I suppose I envy their soft-cushioned upbringings.
It’s not like I wasn’t loved as a child. But security was scarce, from food to safety. Not that I could’ve articulated the things that worried me at the time.
I feel like rich people can get away with murder. But someone like Fin, rich and good looking and so charismatic—he could probably make a ritual sacrifice on the steps of Parliament and walk off, unaccosted.
“I don’t think it’s redundant,” I answer eventually. “Just because we appear to be married doesn’t give you rights over my body.”
“Of course not. Even if you were singing a different tune last night.”
“I’m not responsible for last night,” I retort quickly.
“And boy did you sing loud and proud.”
I narrow my eyes but say nothing as we begin a stare-off. I feel a surge of triumph as his gaze dips first.
“I tell you what,” he says, hooking his thumb into the towel. “How about I even things up.”
“No!” I whip around just in time ... just in time to take a mental snapshot. As I stare at the clothes hanging from the rails, my heart flip-flops like a landed fish as I try to process the sight of those long, muscular thighs. And the hollows of his pelvis that my tongue appears to have sensory knowledge of. I also now know for sure why I’m a contender for the funny-walk-of-the-year prize.
“Are you always this annoying?” I lift my gaze to the ceiling. This is so disconcerting. I might not remember everything about last night, but it’s freaking me out how my body seems to recognize his. How the phantom of his touch seems to be tattooed all over my skin.
I hear the soft slide of a drawer.
“Sometimes I’m worse.”
“I should’ve asked for more money.”
“He would’ve given it to you.”
“Why did you talk him up? Why did you help me?”
“It seemed important to you to get back to London. I guess I wanted you to be fairly compensated in the face of that.”
“That?”
“Your worries or concerns. Besides, Oliver would do anything for Evie. He’d find a way to give her the moon if she asked for it. Or give you a quarter of a million to make her smile.”
Did that sound a little wistful?
“Well, thank you,” I reply, still staring at the ceiling. “He does seem to be very in love. They both do.”
“What they have is rare.”
That was definitely wistful. But I’m not ready to talk love with the man I may or may not be actually married to. Especially when the sounds of his rustling clothing seem to have made my nipples hard.
Think, Mila. Think of something, anything, other than him.
The stairwell to get to my grandmother’s home. The pervasive stench of other people’s cooking—baked in grease and cabbage and things even less pleasant. The raptor-eyed sociopath who lives on the same floor. The looming date of the housing association’s repossession.
Poverty. That’ll do it every time. There is nothing sexy about poverty.
My mind drifts back to the question of my fee. Crossing my fingers, I send a silent plea to the universe. Help me out, please.
“Why do you suppose my clothes are hanging up in here?”
“Because this is where Oliver and Evie were supposed to stay,” he replies. “Best suite in the house.”
This is not happening. There must be an alternative.
Unless the alternative is a plane back home after being found out.
“Do you think I’ve made a mess of things?” I’m not sure he’ll hear and I’m not really sure I want to know as I quietly address the meager row of my clothes.
“In what way?”
“After what’s happened. Do you think Oliver will refuse to pay me?” I hate how vulnerable I sound.
“I know he seems like an asshole, but you held up your part of the bargain. He’ll honor his.”
I cross my fingers. So much for not being suspicious. “Are you decent yet?” I ask, tired of talking to my resort wardrobe.
“I guess that depends on who you ask.”
Fin DeWitt is nothing if not committed.
Inhaling a deep breath, I turn to face him. I’m relieved (mostly) to find he’s at least wearing shorts, a shirt gripped in his hand. That body is such a temptation for a wandering eye, which is why I keep my gaze resolutely on his.
“You can go on and turn that frown upside down. Oliver isn’t gonna give a fuck. He’ll be too high on life.”
I nod, not quite convinced. “I barely remember what I did last night.” And the parts I do remember aren’t exactly PG rated. “If I signed my name, my real name, to the wedding certificate, what other mistakes did I make? Those things you said about the photographs—what if someone gets their hands on them?”
Panic spikes hard inside. Did I dry hump Fin’s thigh when I should’ve been embodying Evie, who is obviously much classier? I’m sure those are the kind of images she’d like flashed across the internet.
I can only imagine it happened because I’ve been thinking about Fin for months. Using him as the basis for my fantasies, replaying the way he looked at me in that closet that smelled of wool and leather and spilled champagne. The way his low spoken compliments felt against my skin and how he promised there would come a time when I’d feel whole again. I’ve reimagined that night so many times, taking it beyond those stolen moments into the realms of absolute fantasy.
But what if I’ve screwed it all up by making those fantasies real?
“You haven’t let them down, Mila. You behaved exactly like a bride should.”
But Fin’s reassurance doesn’t dilute my worry.
“Like a bride should?” I answer distractedly. “According to my experience, that’s a wide range of behavior,” I say. “I know you think you’ve been to a lot of weddings, but weddings are my daily bread, and I’ve seen some things.”
“I’m sure you have.”
I turn my full attention his way. “I’ve seen stuff that would make your hair curl. When it’s long enough. Like the bride slutdropped on her new father-in-law and two others who were caught in a compromising position. One with her stepbrother. What if I’ve ruined things?”
“You were the picture of a besotted bride.”
“That’s not what you said earlier.”
He reaches up and rubs his hand across the back of his neck. “I might’ve been exaggerating.”
“Why?”
“You’re just too tempting not to needle.”
I shake my head as though disappointed. I might’ve been angrier if I weren’t at least a little relieved. “Well, that’s good. For Evie, I mean.” And for my bank balance. My grandmother. My business’s chance of resurrection.
“It was good for me too.”
I narrow my eyes. “Maybe not so good for your health.” Especially if he keeps mentioning last night.
He slides his hands into his pockets as his gaze dips to his bare feet. “I almost bought into it myself.”
I’m tempted to ask him what he means. Best not.
“I’d just hate to let them down,” I say tersely, hoping my tone signifies a change in conversational direction. “I think we should take the opportunity to get a few things straight between us.”
“Sure.” His gaze lifts, but not his head.
“I’m sorry about last night, about what happened between us.”
“I’m not.”
His answer feels like a lick to the inside of my stomach. “Regardless, there won’t be a repeat. I’m here to work, and while my role might’ve turned unconventional—”
“We didn’t get up to anything too kinky.”
“—I take my client’s vision very seriously,” I rush on. “I underpromise and overdeliver.”
“No complaints here,” he replies, all silky mouthed.
I close my eyes for a beat, wishing my body would get with the program.
“But you’re not my client,” I say slowly. As though speaking to a child. Or an idiot. “Whatever happened between us wasn’t supposed to. Last night was a mistake. I promised Evie and Oliver I’d see this through, and I will. But we won’t be having sex again. Further, whether you’ve seen me naked or not doesn’t matter. I’d like you to leave the closet so I can get dressed.”
For the first time in our short acquaintance, Fin’s expression turns blank. As though he’s purposefully wiped all traces of playfulness from his eyes and his thoughts.
I almost feel sorry, and like a bit of a bitch, as he gives a short shrug and turns.
But then, not so sorry again when he says:
“Whatever you say, sugar tits.”