Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Oh, Mr. Deubel, I have a table for six at Chipotle I’ll happily swap.
Call me!
I’m not sure which is crazier. The image of Oliver in a Chipotle restaurant or the idea we could be getting married, which is not even a little funny considering how we met.
I text Yara a quick thanks for sending me the link to the column’s so-called news. She thought the mention was hilarious—she didn’t even ask if it was true. But I guess the way rich people live is so fantastical, they might as well be aliens.
I try not to read the column these days, and I would’ve liked to have avoided any reminder of my parents’ visit. I’m still having cringey flashbacks weeks later. The things they said . . . Urgh!
As I slide my phone back into my purse, I find myself wondering why Una Smith has such a hard-on for us as a couple, because according to Oliver, he had no hand in this. And I believe him. It’s too early to say he’s hugely reformed. I guess his heart is in the right place. Mostly.
Mine too. Mostly.
“I feel very suspicious when you’re sitting there, smiling to yourself.”
“Sorry?” I glance across at Oliver as the Bentley slows for a corner.
“Especially as we drive around Dalston. Care to explain why we’re here?”
“All will be revealed,” I reply mysteriously. If being mysterious includes giggling behind your hand and trying to disguise it as a cough.
He wants to know what I’m up to, meanwhile I’ve given up trying to figure him out. I know he still wants Northaby, but I’m confident he’ll do right by the animals. It’s no good taking them on if his heart isn’t in it. Better they find new homes.
Meanwhile, I know he won’t truly change his spots. He’ll always be up to something—it’s the nature of this man. This man I love. But I know I’m no angel either.
“I forgot to ask you.” I turn to him in the vein of someone just remembering something. “Did you bring your passport?”
“What for?”
“Well, this is unfamiliar territory.”
“Dalston or the fact that you’re in charge?”
“Oh, I’m always in charge. I’m the girl behind the curtain.”
“Pulling strings? That sounds frighteningly familiar.”
“Does our intrepid traveler have his passport as he sets out on his quest to explore the deepest, darkest corners of East London?”
Oliver spikes a brow at my deep-toned nature-documentary-style narration.
“Oh, come on! When was the last time you ventured farther than Shoreditch?”
“Sometimes I forget you think you’re hilarious,” he says, turning to the window as the Bentley stops at a red light. He eyes the pub on the corner, baskets of brightly colored begonias teeming from it.
“But then I remind you.”
His chest expands in preparation for a deep sigh. “Yes. Yes, you do.” But he can’t quite hide his smile. “I have a creeping suspicion this has something to do with my outfit for Mandy’s ball.”
“Perceptive.” It is only a few days away.
“Perceptive enough to know you’re going in the wrong direction. My tailor is nowhere near here.” His gaze slides doubtfully to the window again.
“Here’s the thing. We’re not going to your tailor.”
“Shock.”
“I thought you’d feel like that about it.” I almost wiggle in my seat, excitement bouncing around my insides like bubbles in a pop bottle. “But fair is fair. I so dutifully wore the dress you chose for me.” I slide my hand over my thighs, straightening a rumple in my skirt.
“Frankly, I thought you’d forgotten about it.”
“Hoped, you mean.”
“I distinctly remember you agreed to speak to my tailor.”
“So fussy. Relax! I have everything in hand.”
“That’s not as reassuring as you might think.”
“I called in to your tailor,” I say, patting his thigh. Yum. “I picked up your measurements.”
“For something off the rack?” he says, as though holding it at arm’s length between a pinched finger and thumb.
“Don’t make me spoil this surprise.” I give a slow, disappointed shake of my head.
“The surprise in Dalston,” he deadpans.
“I think you’ll love it.” I know I will.
I’ve put a lot of thought into this afternoon. Undertaken a lot of research, and as the car slows to a halt at the address I’ve given Ted, I turn to take in the full effect on Oliver’s face.
“A charity shop?” His expression is as dark as thunder.
“We call them Goodwill stores back home.” At this, his head jerks my way, and he looks at me as though I’ve grown a second head. A much uglier second head.
“My goodwill is something that’s diminishing by the second,” he mutters.
“It’s one of the biggest in London,” I say, ignoring him to look at the window display. Wouldn’t do to laugh at him.
There’s a leather sofa in the long window, a fluffy afghan throw over the back. The aging credenza next to it houses a tea set with a garish pattern, white crocheted doilies sitting under each piece. There are literally hundreds of stores like this around London, but some of them—especially the ones closer to Oliver’s hotel—are too fancy for my current purposes. For example, the thrift store in Notting Hill had a Boss suit in the window for seventy quid!