Chapter 20 Fin
Chapter 20
Fin
I close the door behind me, leaving sleeping beauty curled up in my bed. I could’ve stayed there all day, lying next to her, just studying the nuances of her loveliness. The tiny REM flutter of her dark lashes, the beauty mark behind her left ear. Her violin curves, and her dainty fingers and pink-painted toenails. But the longer I watched, the greater the temptation grew to kiss her. To pull her close and just fucking hold her. As though it might contain the enormity of my feelings.
In other words, post-nut clarity just wouldn’t let me sleep. And my girl needs her rest, given she pretty much passed out after she climbed off my dick.
It was amazing to touch her before, to kiss her, to taste her tiny whimpers. But there’s something about her taking charge that elevated the whole experience.
Wife, my mind whispers. It blows my mind.
A grin suddenly creeps across my face. I love Evie for Oliver, but I couldn’t quite believe that anyone would tie themself to another for life. It blew my mind trying to understand why, let alone how they could be so certain. What blows my mind now is that I’m in the same place—that I understand and feel those same certainties. Mila is the one for me, and I know now the whole point is not to get it. Until you do. Because that’s how you get to be so sure.
Five days. We’re on the same timeline, just not on the same tracks. I’m sure Mila thinks she’s getting her freak on—getting her groove back. While I’m down to help her with that, I do so with the plan to ultimately, matrimonially, lock her down.
I know it’s crazy, and my feelings might seem over the top to anyone else, but the way I see it, I’ve been falling in love for months.
I’ve got it bad, and I don’t give one single fuck.
For almost twenty years, I’ve actively avoided relationships and pushed away any possibility of love. Who would’ve thought I’d find it in a coat closet, I think with a wry smile.
Mila is unlike any woman I’ve ever known, and she treats me like no woman has. I just want to walk by her side. Be hers—be part of all her life stories. And her, mine.
I make a call to the concierge, order some food for when Mila wakes, then dunk myself in the outdoor shower, which isn’t nearly as much fun the second time around.
Then I pick up my phone.
“What the fuck time do you call this?” Matt, the third of our trio in Maven Inc., doesn’t bother with niceties, his usual soft Irish lilt leaning more toward aggressive. A tone not often heard from him.
“What do you mean?” I don’t bite. I’m too blissed out to be annoyed.
“I emailed you hours ago. Hang on.” The loud trundle of wheels over gravel and the beep-beep of a reversing construction vehicle sounds through the handset. A door opens and bangs shut, footsteps, and then, “What’s going on with the Dildo?”
I’m confused for a second. I know I’ve recently had sex, but post-nut clarity isn’t extending that far. Then I remember. The building.
“Nothing, as far as I’m aware.” It hasn’t even passed planning yet.
London has the Gherkin, the Cheesegrater, the Boomerang, and the Walkie-Talkie, which are all actual buildings, even if those aren’t their actual names but the ones Londoners have christened them with. Soon to join their ranks will be the Dildo, as it’s been referred to internally (ahem) by Maven Inc. It’s touted to be the tallest building in London, once it’s built, topping the Shard by seventy meters, sprouting from the skyline like a great phallic beast.
I really hope the nickname sticks. Especially as I came up with it.
“We really need to start calling the place by its actual name,” I murmur, dropping to the couch.
“It might not need a name, given the word on the street.”
A cube of ice drops into my warm mellow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then you should maybe read your fucking emails.”
“I’m on vacation.” Honeymoon, my mind supplies as I pull a throw cushion from behind my back and launch it to the ottoman. “I haven’t opened my laptop since I arrived. Give me the highlights.”
“Fuck off with your vacation,” he retorts. “It wasn’t even scheduled in.”
“Take it up with Oliver.” As the major shareholder, he likes to think he’s boss. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from him.”
“Not since Wednesday, when he told me not to bother turning up to his wedding.”
That asshole. So much for their plan not being a solid one.
“At least he told you. I flew in from Jakarta for the wedding that never was.” I can’t really complain. Not when I also got the girl. The girl who fake married me to help her grandmother. Then found herself real married to me. My mellow returns as I think of how she allowed me to help secure Roza’s new home. That has to be a step in the right direction, right?
“Well, it’s a wedding that has been now,” he says. “I met Lucy for a quick cuppa yesterday. The deed was done in Saint Bart’s. How he pulled that off on such short notice, I’ll never know.”
“I expect the conniving shit planned it this way all along,” I say with grudging respect.
“Good fella you are for helpin’ them out, all the same. I’m not sure I would’ve been so keen in your place.”
“You know me. I’m all for helping out a friend.”
“Especially when there’s a pretty girl involved.”
“Lucy told you, huh?” I rub my hand up the back of my neck. Lucy would be the one person Oliver let in on his plans. The one person who would’ve been present. I mean, the three of us have always been tight—Oliver, Matt, and me—and we’ve become a quartet since Evie joined our squad. But Lucy is different, because she’s Oliver’s blood. They’ve suffered enough bumps in the road, so I know he wouldn’t have kept this from her.
“Aye, she did. What a harebrained scheme, eh?”
“It’s pretty nuts,” I agree, setting my shit-eating grin free. “So, what’s going on with the Dildo?”
“There are whispers of insider trading with the Deux Toi lot,” he grumbles. “And if that turns out to be true, we know the Qataris will pull out, and then we’ll all be fucked.”
“Leave the Qataris to me. As for the French crew, I’ll make a few calls and see if I can find out what’s going on.”
“Tongues are wagging, Phineas,” he says in an ominous tone. “And you know what a bunch of auld wives they are in this game.”
“I’m on it. I’ll stomp out any flames I find.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. You know that shit’s not in my wheelhouse,” Matt adds, clearly relieved.
Maven Inc. is a private-equity company that primarily deals with real estate and property development, and within it, each of us has a niche. Oliver is the dynamics. Always ahead of the trends in both equity and capital investments, he has a nose for making money, which keeps our investors happy. Along with the rest of us.
My responsibilities lie with our investors and maintaining strong working relationships with them. And yes, that includes wining and dining the big players, which is why I’ve been dubbed the party boy. I prefer to say I’m paid for who I know, not what I do. And not for who I do, which the assholes rag on me unfairly for. You make a mistake one time ...
Matt, meanwhile, is in deal origination. He’s front line—grass roots—and, truthfully, he does way more than he should. Which is why I heard construction noise on the line.
“So.” His tone turns expansive in that one tiny word. “Work aside, how’s the Oliver-mandated vacation going?”
“Technically, it was Evie mandated.” Oliver just stumped up the money. I find myself frowning. I don’t care that he paid Mila to be here, but I do know it weighs on her mind.
“You’re with the wedding coordinator, I hear.”
“That’s right.” There are no fucking secrets, though I’m not sure I appreciate his tone. “She’s great. Really great.”
“And pretty, no doubt.”
I frown, as though he’s said something wrong.
“But a week, Phineas? That’s not your usual MO.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on. A week with one girl?”
“I’m hardly railing a different woman every night of the week.”
“No,” he concedes. “You usually have Wednesdays off.” His joke falls flat, not that he pauses long enough to realize. “One girl in close confines for a week? Things are bound to happen.”
“Could that be a wee touch o’ jealousy in your tone?”
“That is a terrible attempt at an Irish accent. Never injure my ears thusly again. And no, fuckface, I’m not jealous. I have a third date with Isobel on Friday.”
“Third date.” I whistle. “You know what that means, don’t you?”
“That you can fuck right off with your insinuations. If I had to spend a week with you, I’d probably drown you in the swimming pool.”
“I’m not dead yet.”
“Anyway, some of us have got standards. I wouldn’t spend a week shacked up with a stranger, pretty or not.”
“Says Maven Inc.’s only bachelor.”
“I mean, I know you’ve done Oliver a grand favor—” His words halt, and I’m pretty sure I can hear the cogs of his brain turn over.
“I said what I said.”
“No.” One incredulous word. Then, “No fucking way!”
“I got married Saturday. Got the ring, certificate, and everything.” I lift my left hand, examining the thin gold band on the fourth finger.
“In me bollix!” he scoffs, which is followed by another pause. “It was all pretend.”
“Until we changed our minds and fell madly in love.” So I’m stretching it, but fuck him.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And the little fuckin’ donkey! You’re being serious?”
“Congratulate me,” I say, kicking my bare feet onto the ottoman. “For I am a married man.”
“This is not an episode of Bridgerton !”
“What’s Bridgerton ?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “Let me get this straight. Oliver asked you to pretend to be him.”
“Yep.”
“And to pretend to get married to the wedding coordinator, who was pretending to be Evie.”
“That’s right.”
“But you got married for real?”
“Yep.” A pulse pounds low in my belly, and my eyes fall closed as an image flashes in my head. Her dainty fingers wrapped around my cock, sunlight bouncing from her gold wedding band. I’d almost busted a nut right there as the word mine echoed in my head.
“Right there and then? In the ceremony meant for Oliver and Evie?”
“Was that the sound of you clutching at your pearls?” I retort, yanked back from the heavenly recollection. Mine to love and mine to fuck. Mine to spoil, to drip in diamonds, if I want. Oh, she is gonna hate that. The corner of my mouth hooks up at the thought.
“Were you still pretending to be them at that stage?”
“What?”
“Because that mad fucker will kill you if he’s finally gotten Evie pinned down and you’ve somehow made him a bigamist.”
“Don’t be an asshole. I got married in my own name. It’s not like it was planned, but I’m happy about it. In fact, I’m fucking ecstatic.”
“And what about the girl—is she happy with her choice of husband?”
I pause. I know I’ve made her happy a few times already today. As to the deeper meaning, she just needs to let go and relax into it a little.
“Fuckin’ eejit. What did you do?”
I should’ve just said yes— Yes, my wife is deliriously happy to find herself married to me .
“I didn’t do anything.” Which might turn out to be part of the problem when she finds out. If she finds out.
“So, what? She’s got cold feet?”
“No.”
“So she’s sick of you already?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Doesn’t she know women have been tryin’ to put a ring on it for years? And by it , I mean your nose?”
“Does my reputation precede me, you mean?”
“You’ve got more chance of nailing shit to a ceiling than this working out. You know that, right?”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
“Except for the huge-arse pregnant fuckin’ pause just now. What’s the issue? Is she not into this marriage quite as much as you?”
“Yet,” I mutter, staring up at the ceiling fan. “She’s not as into it yet .”
Saying the truth aloud makes me feel a little ill. “Look, she means more to me in a couple of days than—” A couple of days, my ass. I’ve been falling in love with her from the fucking coat closet.
But what if I can’t ever get her to the same point? I push the thought away.
Is it me? Is it her? Is it because her ex fucked her over and all men are scum?
A little of the first, thanks to the internet and my so-called fucking friends. And a little of the second, which ties into the third, I guess. And the third deserves my boot in his face.
I know what it’s like to be betrayed and what it takes to heal. I thought I had. Twenty years playing the field. How is that healthy? How is that supposed to make her trust me?
I have none of the answers. Except one. And that’s Mila. Every place I look, every path I consider taking, she’s at the end of it.
Another thought, another scenario, hits: I loaned her money—not that I want it back. Other women have considered me good for nothing but my cock and my wallet. What if she thinks this is my MO? What if she decides all I’m good for is throwing my dick around and throwing money at problems?
Matt makes a noise, long and low, pulling me from my unhappy musing. “I never thought I’d hear the day. Wait, this has got to be a first for you, right? First love?”
“Fuck off,” I drawl. No way I’m baring my soul to him.
“You can’t make someone love you, Fin.”
“Maybe you can’t. Besides, it’s not like that.” Or so I tell myself. I’m not used to losing, to struggling, so maybe that’s just my ego talking. My fall for Mila has been like a drop from a sheer cliff. Mila, meanwhile, is still standing on that edge. Will her fall be a slow tumble, or will she leap and soar someplace else?
Maybe now the shrooms are taking effect. That was some God-awful analogy.
“Well, I suppose there are worse things than getting married. Like getting married to a woman who isn’t into you.”
“I didn’t say that she wasn’t into me, asshole.” She’s into me, all right. I just need her to get to the place where she can see me in her life, beyond endless sun and tropical climes.
See me for who I really am.
A man who hasn’t had a serious relationship since he was still wet behind the ears. A man who’s used to getting what he wants, using his charm and his smile to make sure he comes out on top. What a fucking catch.
“Or contracting smallpox. Or Ebola. And what was the last one? Ah, that’s right. Gettin’ your dick caught in a meat slicer.”
“Yeah, okay. You’ve made your point.” I said all those things at Oliver’s bachelor party, though I use the term party very loosely. I’d been up for a weekend in Ibiza for the celebration, or a weeklong blowout in Vegas, though the latter wasn’t Oliver’s style. Matt suggested a Dublin pub crawl for the excellent craic , and I even threw in Prague as a second and more cultured attempt. But Oliver rejected any and all plans, adamant he’d be in bed with Evie by the end of his bachelor night.
So, dinner it was. At his own fucking hotel.
Wild, right?
I ribbed him about it all night. Told him he was pussy whipped. The irony is, I get it now. There was just a wall between me and Mila last night, and I wanted to tear that fucker down.
“I said that shit, but as it turns out, I’m happy to be proven wrong. I feel this, Matt. Feel the rightness in my bones. And she’s not a stranger. I’ve spoken to you about her before.”
Matt groans down the line. “It’s not that horsey-lookin’ one from that shite TV show.”
“Who?”
“You know the one—she always seems to surface when we’re out. Hanging around when the photogs are about.”
“The woman from Made in Rich mond ?” I feel my expression twist. “Charlotte something or other?”
“That’s the one. She can’t take a hint, which makes me think she hasn’t enough brain cells to start a fire. You need two to rub together.”
“I haven’t spoken to you about her.”
“Aye, you have. Complained, more like.”
“I’ve never touched her,” I reiterate. Not that she hasn’t offered.
“I should’ve known it wouldn’t be her. Evie wouldn’t have that fame whoor anywhere near her big day.”
“Evie likes my girl.” That much seemed true.
“ Your girl?”
“I’m fucking married to her!” I protest. “Her name is Mila.”
Matt falls quiet. But just saying her name sends a wave of sunshine through my chest.
“Mila,” he repeats.
“You remember, right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I remember. I just can’t quite believe it.”