Chapter 14 Mila
Chapter 14
Mila
Wifey. Sugar tits. Sugar nips. Medusa. Gremlin. Honeybuns —plural. Slut muffin. Smut muffin. Bunny. And now puddin’ .
I shouldn’t be flattered by all that, should I?
I’m not sure if he was serious about daddy , but thundercock suits him. Anatomically, at least. My shoulders creep up under my ears as I give in to a giggle that Muttley, the cartoon dog, would be proud of. I think my blush might run all the way to the roots of my hair. What an eyeful that was. I can’t believe I (underwater) pantsed him—what devil possessed me?
As my giggle recedes, I give myself an internal shake. All the things I told him, all the cringe-inducing failures of my life. Was I trying to put him off?
And why didn’t it work?
It doesn’t matter. I can’t get caught up in this, I decide as I pull my feet up onto the sofa and curl them under my bum. My phone sits on the sofa arm, charged and connected to the Wi-Fi, but I’m trying very hard to ignore it. Same goes for listening to Fin moving around in the bedroom. Bare padding footsteps and toneless humming, and the odd question he calls out that I can’t ignore.
Such as: “Wanna come watch me shower?”
“No thanks!” I call back.
Maybe it’s more that I was trying to make it so awkward that I’d be too embarrassed to even think about sleeping with him. Not that it worked. Memory fragments from our wedding night don’t exactly help.
You could be his little puddin’. The dirty vessel he’d like to lick clean.
I absolutely ignore not-Ronny’s words, even as between my legs thrums at the thought.
The truth is, I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want him. But I can resist—I don’t have poor impulse control!
I will not jump Fin DeWitt’s bones.
I will reside serenely next to him until Friday without giving in to temptation.
I should write it out five hundred times. I just need to find a pencil and notebook. And some self-control.
Fin is a whole lot of man and a whole lot of fun, but this isn’t just about me. It’s about Baba, about securing both our futures. I want fun in my life. I want a relationship and love and a family of my own in time. All those hopes I put into Adam haven’t gone away. But Fin is too much of a risk. A wedding certificate does not a marriage make.
Okay, Yoda.
Ignoring not-Ronny, I decide I need a distraction. I swipe up my phone, only to tap it absently to my chin. It would be absolutely wrong for me to google Fin. First, I don’t need to know anything else about him. In fact, the less I know, the better, right? Second, it feels a tiny bit hinky. Like an invasion of his privacy. Even if the information is in the public domain.
It would be wrong—all kinds of wrong. Especially after watching how distressed Evie was before she left. I mean, Fin wasn’t chased out of a church by a vengeful fiancée, but I bet there are still things on the net that he’d prefer weren’t there.
But maybe the fact that he wouldn’t want me to know is the exact reason I should know. Sensible women google men before they meet them for dates.
But we’re not dating.
We’re ... something else. Something that defies all logic.
I’ve confessed all my ridiculousness to him. Well, not all of it.
I wonder how many of Fin’s dates google his net worth first. Not that I’m interested in his wallet. What he has in his pants, however ...
It’s a very good thing I have self-control, I decide as I slide my thumb over the lock.
The screen lights up.
And I quickly type out a text:
Miss your face.
My phone vibrates with a message immediately.
Ronny : New phone. Who dis?
She deleted me? I’ve only been gone a couple of days!
Not that we’re friends. Maybe we are sort of friends, even if I’m ten years older than her. Ronny’s popped over a lot since Baba went into the nursing home. But she’s just a kid—nineteen—it’s not like she’s the type to listen to me pour out my heart over a bottle of rosé.
Actually, she probably would. Though I’m not sure she’d be much good for advice. You can’t take dating advice from someone whose own dating life comes with a curfew.
Almost immediately, my phone vibrates again.
Ronny : Lol/jks. What’s up?
Me : I thought you’d forgotten me!
Ronny : How could I forget my fav neighbor and potential boss-lady?
Ronny is looking for a summer job, and this is another of her not-so-subtle hints. At least I’ll be able to help her out on this front now. Doing what, I’m not sure. Ronny is a little rough around the edges.
Me : I might just have something for you.
Ronny : That news is so hype! Can I call round?
Me : Not yet. I’m still in Indonesia.
Ronny : Flexing! I like.
Me : Not so much. I’m here for work, remember?
At that very moment, my work project walks into the living room in a pair of thin cotton shorts. Hello, thundercock ...
“Did you only pack one T-shirt?” I ask pertly.
“Sorry?” He glances down at his chest. To be fair, so do I.
“You had a T-shirt on earlier. Did you forget where you put it?”
“You should be thankful I’m not free ballin’,” he replies. “That’s my usual vacation style.”
I close my mouth and dip my eyes back to my phone.
Me : Something came up and I have to stay longer. I’ll call you when I’m home.
Ronny : Want me to call in and see Roza?
Me : Would you? That would be great.
Relief floods through me. Despite my reasons for doing this, it’s been almost impossible to ignore the guilt of not being there.
Ronny : I’ll take her some Turkish Delight.
Me : Thank you so much x
“What’s got you smiling?” Fin asks, throwing a white pillow to the other end of the sofa. “Is it my magnificence?”
“You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
“Nope,” he says, popping the p . “I might even get it in a tattoo.”
“Knock yourself out,” I say, unfolding my legs to stand.
“Don’t you feel even a little bad for kicking a man out of his own bed?”
“Also nope .” Taking hold of my pendant, I shuffle my way around the ottoman.
“Hard woman.”
I startle as Fin suddenly takes stock of my hips from behind. Startle and almost melt. “The bed is big enough for us both,” he says, his voice low and sort of raspy. His fingers flex, like he’s trying to restrain himself. “It’s a California king.”
My shoulders begin to shake with a silent chuckle.
“My bed is funny?”
“Your pleading,” I say over my shoulder. “I said I’d take the couch. I don’t mind.”
With a groan he tips forward, and I think he’s about to kiss me, everything inside me tightening in preparation. Instead, he presses his nose to my hair. And inhales. “What kind of man would that make me?”
“One who really likes snakes?” I whisper.
“I really do.” He straightens, his hands falling away as he takes a step back. “May your dreams be plagued by me.”
“Not possible,” I say, turning and tapping my pendant. “The eye protects me from evil.”
“Hard and harsh,” he replies, but I hear his smile even if I don’t look back.
I make my way into the bedroom, feeling only slightly guilty as I close the door behind me. The room is quiet. So quiet. But for the loud thud-thud of my heart. It smells like him, his cologne and soap and something uniquely Fin.
I pull back the crisp white covers and slide in between the cool sheets, my phone still in my hand. And then I do what I was really going to do all along.
I open a Google search page and type in Phineas DeWitt .
The search bar autofills with What is Phineas DeWitt’s net worth .
Nope right out of that!
Wikipedia comes up first, so I give it a quick scan.
He has two sisters, both older.
Parents deceased. Like mine.
Raised by his grandparents in moneyed Westport. Similar to my upbringing. If you cross your eyes.
Schooling. All-boys boarding, as he said. Ivy League university and postgrad at LSE. Clever man.
I move back a page and scan my results. No Bookface. No ’Gram. No Pulse Tok. No social media whatsoever.
There are mentions of his name on several business and entrepreneurial sites, plus interviews with journalists. Forbes . The Financial Times . Bloomberg .
I scroll and scroll, so much of the same. Nothing salacious, which is surprising. Disappointing? His name comes up in lots of society news pages. Tabloid stuff, mostly. I open one or two. Then four or five. Then a few more, all of them in the same vein. A photograph of Fin looking movie-star attractive, a leggy looker on his arm. A byline that names the event, sometimes his companion, but the snapshots provide no more insight than that.
No damning indictments of his character. I’m not even sure why I’m looking for it.
Then I note a Blogspot entry, way down in the list. I open it up. It’s a screenshot of an article from the City Chronicle , dated last year.
A Little Bird Told Us ...
news that makes a Little Bird’s heart and wings flutter.
Evelyn Fairfax, our poor Pulse Tok bride and virtuous doggy doctor, is sitting in a swanky Kensington restaurant right now with none other than Fin DeWitt, the handsome darling of London’s gossip columns.
Get you some, girl!
Fin and Evie? It’s a wonder he’s still breathing. Unless they were a thing first.
The screenshot of the article goes on ...
If a Little Bird needed a broad shoulder to lean on, party-boy Fin’s would be top of the list!
Check out the pics. She looks so happy!
#Finlyn
There are no images attached and no mention of this coupling anywhere else on the internet. Not when I google their names together. In fact, the article isn’t listed in past posts from the City Chronicle ’s website.
So if it isn’t housed in the archives there, does that mean it was retracted? Did Oliver threaten to sue? Either way, I can’t see it being true, not having witnessed their interactions. As a trio, they seemed far too solid. Evie and Fin’s exchanges seem more like that of siblings. No animosity, but lots of insults.
I flip back to the article with the screenshot and holy moly! How many comments?
251 comments
HideYoKids: She deserves a ride on all that fine after what she’s been thru. Go get you some, gurl!
FloozyLoosie: Oh, Evie. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, luv?
AmaraKarna: That man *is* fire!
EllenDeGenerate: Tru dat. I’d make his thighs my earmuffs.
HollyBloLightly: I’d make my thighs *his* earmuffs.
Aunti_Depressant: Wasn’t he shagging the blonde from Made in Chelsea?
MisAnnThrope: No, it was her from Made in Rich mond . The one who looks like her horse.
FloozyLoosie: He’s banging them both. He’s a total man ho.
AmaraKarna: I’d be okay with that. I’d totes be his side ho!
Thots.an.Prayers: I was working a wedding where he shagged a pair of bridesmaids at the back of the marquee.
AmaraKarna: Lucky bridesmaids
Thots.an.Prayers: Another time, it was the mother of the bride.
AmaraKarna: Doesn’t put me off. It just says he takes his craft seriously.
Load more comments . . .
“Fin the playboy” checks out, according to the anonymous horde and not just his friends.
Even more so when I google the TV show mentioned in the comment thread. The woman from Made in Rich mond looks nothing like a horse, unless we’re talking thoroughbreds. She does seem a little familiar, but I expect I’ve seen her on TV. Not on that show, though. I’m not a fan of reality TV, but the Made in Rich mond cast do seem particularly vacuous.
I change my search terms:
Who is Fin DeWitt dating?
Dozens of A Little Bird Told Us posts pop up. If he was dating this much, he’d never make time for the office, let alone get any sleep. The press seem so invested in him—the posts in various publications going back years! It looks as though he only has to be seen standing next to a woman for it to be rumored they’re together. As for the alleged dalliance with a mother of the bride, I will say the women Fin has been linked with aren’t all dewy-eyed starlets under the age of twenty-five. The man likes a little variety.
He’s so photogenic, though. Dapper in a business suit and hot in a tux. Zaddy energy, Sarai would say. And the women by his side are all drop-dead gorgeous.
I sigh, ignoring the fleeting thought that notes me as the anomaly. I’m not being all boo-hoo about it; rather, I’m a realist. I’m pretty and I’m personable. I’m just not going to be walking any catwalks or winning any beauty pageants.
There is one weird find on my internet search. It’s a link to a social media platform that seems to be the kind of place that took over from old-school chat rooms. Not that there’s anything weird in that. Weird isn’t even in the name of the group, or server , as it’s called—StarsInHerEyes. The weirdness is in the name of a locked thread. FindingPhineasDeWitt.
I can’t dig any further without joining the platform and then applying with the moderators of the server. Which I’m not going to. I don’t need to dig anymore, because I already know getting involved with Fin is a bad idea.
Unless—
I block out not-Ronny’s smutty suggestion and set an alarm on my phone before placing it on the nightstand. I pull the satin-soft sheet up to my neck and snuggle in. Then sit up and turn my alarm off again.
I’m on vacation for five more days. The least I can do is try and enjoy myself.