Chapter 27 Fin
Chapter 27
Fin
Mila is largely silent for the rest of the ride home as Evie and Matt pick up the conversation, filling the holes. I watch her from the corner of my eye as the sun lowers and the streetlamps flicker on and intermittently wash her in a sickly yellow light only to steal her from my gaze again.
Fuck, I wish I could read her thoughts.
The limo pulls to a stop at the front of my building. It’s gone ten now, but London is never really dark. Or silent. Even in the parks and the quietest streets, the hum of traffic is ever present in the distance. Not that I’d have it any other way. I love it here.
I invite my friends in for a drink, not blaming them one bit when they decline. The ride was awkward enough. I can only assume it was Evie’s idea to be at the airport. I expect she was ecstatic to hear the news of my marriage. She’s always teasing me, insisting my life would remain hollow until I found myself the love of a good woman.
My stock answer has long been that I was happy for bad women to fill those holes in the meantime.
Matt beats the limo driver to the bags, pulling them from the trunk before grabbing me in a hard, manly backslapper of a hug.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’ve done,” he says, his arms still around me, “but I expect you’ll fix it, as per usual.”
“Everything I said on the phone was true,” I say, pulling away. “I’ve got it bad, but Mila ...”
“Ah, jaysus,” he mutters accusingly. Then he eyes me as though I smell unsavory.
I glance at my shoes, feeling so fucking dumb. “I don’t even think Jesus is going to fix this one. Didn’t you hear her?”
When I told her on the plane I’d do this, that I’d fucking “pretend,” I said it was because she had more to lose than me. It was a lie, a great big fucking lie. Because I’ve lost my heart to her.
“You said I couldn’t make her love me, and I laughed it off, remember? Now that’s hubris.”
“Get out of it, you miserable fucker,” he says, dismissing my words.
“I mean it,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’ve got nothing.”
“I’ve never known you to give up. Not without a fight. A dirty feckin’ fight.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if you were part of the same ride.”
“That’s the jet lag talking.” His eyes slide behind me, and I turn, following them to where Mila stares up at the imposing edifice of my apartment building. “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight but the size of the fight in the dog. And that there is some scrappy wee terrier.”
My eyes cut sharply Matt’s way, because that is no dog . That’s my—
“Or to put it another way, the lady doth protest her disinterest a bit too strongly, I reckon. I thought she was gonna bite off your head when she mentioned that fame whoor Charlotte.”
“You think she’s jealous?” It’s probably more that she’s pissed by the implication harming her business plans.
“Cop on to yourself, man. Of course she’s jealous. Just get yourself a good night’s rest. Things will look better in the morning.”
“Sure thing, Uncle Matt.”
“You look like boiled shite. Like you haven’t slept a wink in days.” His eyes narrow, and he pulls an unhappy face. “Are you blushing?” he asks incredulously.
“Don’t be an asshole,” I retort, grabbing the bags. But, yes, I think I am.
“Get fucked yourself,” he mutters as I pass, and he slaps my back.
“Good evening, Mr. DeWitt.” The doorman reaches for the bags as the bronzed glass doors slide almost silently open.
“Thanks, Pete. I’ve got them.”
“As you prefer, Mr. DeWitt. Madam.” He inclines his head in the direction of Mila, who murmurs a quiet hello.
“You live in a hotel?” she asks once we’re out of earshot.
I shake my head. It looks like a fancy hotel, and it does have links to the nearby Mandarin for room service and shit, but no. “This is my apartment building.” Which is just a stone’s throw from Harrods and Buckingham Palace.
Matt and Oliver heaped shit on me for buying this place off plan, comparing my tastes to the oil sheikhs I’m often wining and dining on behalf of Maven. But the joke’s on them, because I could sell this place tomorrow for double what I paid.
We cross the lobby, the low tasteful hum of music overlaid by the slap-slap of Mila’s Converse and the trundle of her trolley bag. I try to see the place from her eyes. The onyx marble floors, the plush velvet couches, and the concierge desk and the welcoming smiles of the staff stationed there. Chandeliers like art installations; lush greenery; bronzed mirrors reflecting our path to the elevators; the doors that open before we reach them. The car that moves without inputting our destination.
“A place so posh you don’t even have to push the buttons?” The reflection of her smile is unsteady.
“It’s a private car. One destination. I bought the place as an investment,” I add. Weird. I’ve never sought to explain my life or my decisions to anyone before now.
The door opens into the small hallway. Shiny floors, more plants, and another couch, as though a short elevator journey might be fatiguing. I input the code at the ebony front door, and it opens.
“After you,” I say, ignoring the insane urge to carry my bride across the threshold of what I hoped would be her new home. Rather than the place she has to stay to save her business.
“Oh, my days.” She makes a beeline for the wall of windows. The lamps are on in the living room, and though it’s dark outside, you can still see the tops of the trees. It’s like looking over a field of darkened broccoli in the middle of the city. “Is that Hyde Park?” Her voice sounds doubtful, her eyes widening as her gaze turns my way, and I nod. “Wow. Those are some views.” Her smile barely holds before she turns away again.
“Yeah.” I stifle a sigh. “A view.” Fuck me, that ass was made for leggings. My eyes slide over the flare of her hips. In my mind’s eyes, I press my palm to the sinuous arch at her lower back as I bend her forward. Palms against the glass. “What did you tell them for?”
She swings around, her smile nowhere to be seen as her gaze skims over the room, the color palette a repeat of downstairs. Amber and bronze and dark wood. Opulent accents and tactile soft furnishings. All chosen by a decorator.
“I couldn’t lie to them,” she says, linking her hands at her front. “And I couldn’t make you lie to them. Not for me.”
“You didn’t make me,” I answer wearily. “I choose to.” For you.
“I just panicked, all right? Evie is so kind and so nice, I just couldn’t do it!”
“Well, they won’t tell anyone, so no need to worry on that front. As far as the rest of London is concerned, we’re still married. We’re still in love. That is, if you want to stick with the plan.”
“Do you think they might think, or wonder, if they’ve been paying me to sleep with you?”
Despite her worried tone, my own words hit the air with violence. “Do you think I need to pay women to sleep with me?”
“I can’t be the first woman who took offense to your ...” Her eyes flick to my lips before she drags them away. “Your mustache.”
Her eyes widen as I round the sofa setting, before I pause at the polished walnut cocktail cabinet, pulling out my wallet and flipping it to the top. “You mean ‘half-grown Chia Pet’ ?” I slide her a provocative look over my shoulder as I open the small door.
“Sorry. I told you I say inappropriate things when I’m—”
“Are you sorry for saying it or sorry I shaved it off?”
“What does it matter?”
“It doesn’t. Not really.” I reach for the tantalus, which once belonged to my grandfather, and select the decanter of single malt. “Other than you didn’t get to ride it.”
She huffs audibly. She might say stupid stuff when she’s worried or nervous, but me? I prefer to dig my holes a little deeper as I lean into the lascivious character she’s made me in her head. Or maybe that really is me. Fuck, I don’t know anymore. I don’t know whether I’m on my ass or my head. Not with her. All I know is she can flay me with one look and turn me on with the next, and I just can’t stand the thought of her walking away.
So I’ll do what it takes to keep her. Stick to the plan.
“Can I get you a drink?” The scent notes of earth and peat rise as the liquid hits the bottom of a lowball glass.
“No. Thank you,” she says stiffly. “I’m tired,” she adds. “If you just tell me which room is mine, we can talk tomorrow.”
I press the lid onto the decanter and slide it back in. Close the doors.
“Any of them.” I turn to face her and lean back against the cabinet, hooking my elbow over the top. “Doesn’t matter which if it isn’t mine.”
“I’m not sleeping with you. I thought I’d made myself clear.”
“After your earlier one-eighty, I thought I’d just put it out there.”
I thought I could make this work without telling my friends the truth. That she doesn’t love me. That I’m maybe just useful. That I thought I could make her fall in love with me in the meantime. Not that her admission changes anything. Not for her, at least. My friends are more like family. They’d help bury the bodies, no questions asked. I know they’ll extend this to Mila. For me.
“I’m sorry I blindsided you. Lying to them was more difficult than I thought it would be.”
I tilt my glass to study its contents in the lamplight. “It doesn’t matter.”
Mila’s eyes drop to my lips as I tilt my head, savoring the subtle slide of burning liquid down my throat. She folds her arms across her body, its language turning electric, kindling a spark of fury that could light a fire. Maybe she’s angry at herself. Maybe it’s me.
“Did you know I’d be on that island when you arrived?”
Well, that answers that question, I guess.
“How could you not tell me? Didn’t I deserve the truth?”
“The truth that I handed Evie your business card? It didn’t seem important. And no, I didn’t know you’d be there. But yes, I hoped.”
“It seems like too much of a coincidence, you and me being there at the same time, all the way on the other side of the world.”
“I didn’t ask her to hire you, Mila. I can’t say it any plainer than that.”
“I believe you, even if—”
“You want the truth?” I move from the cocktail cabinet like a striking snake. “The truth is I carried your business card in my wallet for months, too chicken to call you myself. I was so goddamned into you that you plagued my fucking dreams. But I couldn’t make myself call because what happened between us wasn’t some hookup. It felt real. Too real. So I gave Evie your card and let fate take care of the rest.”
“No, not fate. Magic mushrooms did the rest. It’s all such bullshit,” she spits, her eyes glittering as they move over me with revulsion. “You should’ve told me, Fin. I’ve never been so embarrassed as I was in that limo.”
“Aw, babe,” I say with an exaggerated pout.
Her eyes harden. Out of all the things I’ve called her, I’d never gone generic.
“You should take a leaf out of my book. Just don’t give a fuck what people think about you.”
“That’s exactly the kind of thing I’d expect a man like you to say.”
“A man like me?” My voice is quiet, my tone hard.
“A fuckboy,” she says, emphasizing the fricative with vitriol.
With a low, guttering laugh, I throw back my drink then set it down, the glass connecting with the walnut harder than I anticipate. “A fuckboy,” I repeat, as though trying the title on for size.
“Yes. The top-shelf version.”
“Tell me, what is that?” I step closer, not threateningly, but her eyes still narrow. “A man who doesn’t respect women?” I ask, coming to a stop in front of her. “One who’s selfish? Who doesn’t care who he hurts?”
“A fuckboy,” she enunciates, “is a man who only cares about getting his dick wet, whether with Princess Marta, with me, with Caroline. Whoever.”
“I think you mean Charlotte .” Worse, I say it with such soft familiarity. What the fuck am I doing? I know what I want to do—shake Mila for her ridiculousness. “As for getting my dick wet, my preference would be with my little slut muffin,” I add, my words turning to a taunt. “Because, babe , your pussy got me plenty wet.”
“Not anymore.” Her hand twitches by her side, and for a minute, I wonder if she’ll lift it to slap me.
“The thing is, whatever happens between us, I’d do it all again,” I whisper as my mind races a mile a minute. “I’d go back if I could, rewind and live those days again and again. Even with the same painful outcome. I’d do the same things. Say the same things. Because I will never regret you.”
“Fin.” My name sounds like regret as it falls from her lips.
“Should we? Do it again? Maybe we go farther back and find a closet. We could climb in and let our bodies do all the talking. It doesn’t seem as though we’re doing so well by ourselves.”
“You’re a mental case,” she whispers, her eyes glistening. “Absolutely crazy pants.”
“Yeah, I know.” I’m crazy for you. “Should we? You could dry hump me into oblivion. Or stick a spiked heel into my ball sack.”
“What?”
“Or whatever. Whatever it takes to turn the clock back.” To take away this ache, the sense that everything is slipping away. “I’m not that man, Mila. I’m the guy who makes really shitty pancakes because I want to take care of you. I’m the guy who loves your ass, loves your laugh. The one who doesn’t wear shirts, just for your entertainment.”
“It’s not that entertaining,” she whispers.
“Then why do you stare so much?” I lean forward, the space between us a yawning gap. Or a small madness to close, not that I expect—
Madness might be contagious as Mila throws herself at me. The force of her makes me stagger backward as her arms come around my neck and she practically scales me.
“I’m sorry.” Her fingers curl in the shoulder of my sweater. “I know that’s not you, even if part of me wishes it was.”
I grip her ass and make a groan of her name as her legs close around my waist. She reaches down my back, gripping my sweater to pull it over my head.
“Please, Fin.” Her whisper is frantic, her lips trembling against mine. “Please fuck me.”
“So you can tell me it’s my fault in the morning.” Despite my harsh words, my hands—my arms—couldn’t hold her any tighter right now.
“Never.” Her lips a hot press over my hammering pulse. “I’m sorry. I need you.” And so goes her litany as I strip her one-handed from her cardigan, pressing her to the back of the couch to pull off her T-shirt.
Chaotic hair and grasping hands, her legs still linked behind me as she toes off her Converse. Leggings next, panties with them. We work my fly loose together, the gold of her wedding ring glinting in the lamplight as she wraps her fingers around my cock.
“I fucking love that,” I rasp, watching as her thumb swipes over my crown, the pulse there pounding mine, mine, mine . “I like the way it shines when you’re touching me.”
“My ring?” Her brow flickers.
“It makes me feel something I can’t explain.”
She takes my hand, pressing her lips to my wedding ring. Then my hand to her breast. “I need you.” She gives a soft vowel sound as she rubs my smooth crown through her wetness, her breath catching on her next words. “Like nothing else.”
Positioning myself, I thrust upward and, “ Fuck! ”
I’m in so deep, and so close to her, as I bring my hands back under her ass, tumbling us onto the couch. My back against the cushions, Mila undulates over me, making my vision go hazy around the edges.
“Ride me,” I rasp, all gasping demand. I take her hand and press her fingers to where, with each flex of my hips, I move inside her. “Fuck me, Mila. Make me yours.”
And I thank the stars when she does.
Even if it’s only for a little while.