Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Hilarious,” Oliver drawls, unimpressed.
“So you bumped into her,” Fin says, turning my way. “And . . . then you lost touch? Until you saw her again today.”
“Which is just another way of saying it was a one-night stand,” Oliver says without judgment. He makes a gesture with his hand: palm facing the ceiling, finger curling in and back. Sort of give me my money back.
“Since when have you two become gossiping auld women? Ah, that’s right,” I mutter, folding my arms across my chest. “Since the pair of you got married. Slippers and pipe by the fire and stickin’ your noses in other people’s lives.”
“Oooh!” Fin intones. “Someone’s got his panties in a wad. Green panties, to boot.”
I can’t help but smile. He means jealous, but I’m thinking of green gossamer lace and the treasures beneath. All that loveliness. “Look, we spent the night together, and she left while I was sleeping.”
“A perfect ending.” A pause. “What?” Oliver glances between us. “At least in my experience. My previous experience.”
Fin looks momentarily confused. “Do you not know how to use that thing?”
“Eh?” But I follow his drift as his eyes drop to the table. I make a noise of disgust.
“Being hung doesn’t mean you don’t have to put in the work.”
“Jaysus,” I mutter. “It was nothing like that.”
“If she didn’t stick around, then maybe she thought it wasn’t worth repeating.”
“He might have a point,” Oliver puts in. “Back in my single days, I was usually the first to leave. After morning sex. It was quite convenient living in a hotel.”
“Would the pair of youse just shut the hell up for a second?” I demand, slipping into the vernacular. “She didn’t leave because she didn’t enjoy herself. She left because she thought I was a fucking escort!”
Again, the pair says nothing, maybe because my retort seems to echo rudely in the room. Oliver gives a sudden nod, one that’s preceded by an indignant huff and the violent shuffle of a newspaper from a nearby table.
“Good evening, Viscount Radler,” Oliver offers, biting back a grin. “You’ll have me blackballed,” he murmurs, turning my way.
“He’d be doing you a favor,” mutters Fin.
“Thrown out of my own club for entertaining undesirable sorts?”
“I thought he was asleep,” Fin says.
“I thought he was dead.” The two of them glance sharply my way. “What? He’s got feckin’ muttonchops—men haven’t worn muttonchops for more than a hundred years.” And he’s always there in the same position, hiding behind a copy of The Times. “I thought maybe he’d been stuffed or something.”
“Unlike your girl,” Fin retorts as quick as a flash.
I slide him a look that very eloquently says, Get. Fucked.
“What do you mean she thought you were an escort?” Oliver leans in, all discreet drawl and disdain. He slides his fingers over the base of a glass of wine, which is probably something unpronounceable and ridiculously expensive. To be fair, my taste in whiskey runs the same way.
“Just what I said.” I adjust the cuffs of my shirt under my jacket, the thing suddenly no longer fitting right. “She even left me an envelope stuffed with cash. My fee or my tip or—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Fin holds up a hand. “You charged her?”
“Fuck, no!” I retort. At checkout, my heart leapt when the receptionist mentioned there was a message for me. Maybe she’d left me her number after all? No such fucking luck. Though there were looks. Weird ones as I opened the envelope and a good chunk of cash almost spilled from it.
“That’s not what it sounds like.” Oliver remains impassive; meanwhile, glee dawns slowly on Fin’s face.
“You American gigolo, you.” The bastard enunciates each word slowly, delightedly.
“Isn’t that an old movie?” Oliver looks mildly confused.
“Yeah, with Richard Gere. Though he’s more like Richard’s gear,” Fin adds, pretending to grab his junk under the table.
“I don’t understand why you’d do such a thing.”
“It’s not like I set out to,” I complain.
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” Fin says, reaching for his glass. “Not usually envelopes stuffed with cash. Seems I’ve been missing a trick.”
“Literally,” Oliver adds dryly.
“Hilarious. Fuckin’ comedians.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Go on—don’t let me stop you. Yuck it the fuck up.” This is why I didn’t want to tell them. It’s not like either of them is a paragon of virtue, but I’m not in the mood to waste my breath.
“Sorry,” Fin offers. “It’s quite a tale. Kind of hard to resist.”
“I honestly thought I was doing the right thing. At least initially. I didn’t want to encourage her—pretty and pretty crazy can go hand in hand. And she had this wild story from the minute we met. I wasn’t sure she was serious. Or right in the head.”
“The crazy ones do have their attractions.” Fin nods sagely. He would know.