Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
It felt as though he was looking at me with intent. But maybe he was just looking at me like I was some random girl he’d gotten to feel up in a coat closet. One of many, by the sound of things. Whatever he thought, I was too busy dealing with my own feelings to guess at his.
“I don’t know,” I say eventually. “I don’t know him, so it’s hard to tell.”
That’s true enough. For instance, I didn’t realize, according to his friends, he’s no saint as far as women are concerned. But I know he’s kind and that he kisses well. And I know he loves his friends. That’s why he didn’t need a monetary incentive to agree to this piece of unhinged ridiculousness.
“Why do you ask?” I add.
“It’s just, when they all arrived, and I was talking to him and you were talking to the couple in the pavilion, his eyes kept straying your way. Like he recognized you. Or maybe like he was into you?”
I ignore the effervescent fizz bubbling away in my chest. “He was probably just trying to work out who Evie and Oliver were talking to.”
“It was more than that, it was like he couldn’t wait to—” A knock sounds at the door. “That’ll be the photographer,” she adds.
I groan. This is so ridiculous. I mean, I get it: we should try to keep everything the same to fool those intrusive press idiot shitheads. Which means the photographer, the band, the catering, and the guests (who are now stand-ins from the hotel) are all important props. But this bit—prewedding photographs—who’d know if they didn’t go ahead?
Evie said we can just destroy the photos afterward, but it just feels like one more thing. One more reminder of what I didn’t get to experience myself.
But that’s a me problem, not an Evie problem. I need the money more than I hate being caught in a photographer’s lens. Even if having my photo taken turns me into a wooden, grimacing thing.
“Hi!” The photographer breezes in, her assistant trudging behind her, weighted down with bags and bags of equipment. “What a fabulous room.”
“Isn’t it just,” I say, playing my part.
“So.” She smiles widely. “I thought we might start with the lingerie shots.”
What?
Chapter 5
Mila
“I feel like a beekeeper.” My bottom lip juts as I blow out a breath that has no effect on the veil that sticks to my face. The dramatic, cathedral-length veil, the thing that protected my modesty in the bridal-lingerie shoot.
Extra points to Evie for choosing a veil with length and volume, as I was able to wrap myself in it. I’d felt sexy, glamorous, and sort of mysterious. Eventually. Wearing it now, I just feel overheated.
“Stop complaining. You look hot AF.”
“Yes, because I am hot. I’m bloody roasting!”
“Compared to that sack you were wearing earlier, you’ve had a total glow-up.”
“That was linen, not hessian. And the glow is thanks to being sweaty.”
“You’re delulu,” she says with a low chuckle.
Delulu-sional? But she wasn’t laughing when I hid in the bathroom after the photographer arrived. Like a four-year-old refusing to go to bed. Or an almost-thirty-year-old refusing to take part in a wedding-lingerie shoot.
“Get out here,” Sarai had hissed through the closed door. “You don’t want to arouse suspicions, do you?” She’d sounded very grown up and very bossy for someone of her tender years. Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, I was trying not to rattle my fun-size vodka bottles. Talk about role reversals.
“I don’t want to arouse anyone,” I muttered, staring at my reflection. The full-length view was . . . not terrible. I looked sort of sexy in the tiny ivory knickers and matching balconette bra that I’d packed with the distant (galaxies distant) thought that I might get lucky during my week in paradise. I imagined it would be divine justice that a hot bartender or surfer dude I’d picked up on the beach would peel me out of my wedding-day lingerie.
In hindsight, it’s good that I did pack them. I’m not sure the wedding photographer would’ve bought my something old being my wedding underwear.
It’s ironic how I seemed to have lost weight, given how I tried in vain in the run-up to my big day. The scales just wouldn’t budge. Heartbreak, heartache, and cooking on a limited budget were all I needed, it seems. Although, on reflection, my clothes fit the same, so . . . maybe it’s more the case that I no longer hear Adam’s nagging voice.
You’re eating again? Didn’t you just have lunch an hour ago? and Shouldn’t you order a salad? It’s up to you, but I hate to see you disappointed when you can’t fit into your dress.
Anyway, I did the lingerie shoot. I held my head high and pretended to be someone else. Someone who didn’t need her nerves blunted by a couple of vodka miniatures because she was about to fake a wedding ceremony with a hot stranger. I tried to concentrate on the opportunities the money would bring and not on how Fin’s eyes had seemed to devour me. Or why.