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)
“You shouldn’t give a fuck what people think—not that Oliver and Evie would judge you.”
“You can’t know that, and it’s a risk I can’t afford to take.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, so I hope my meaning is sinking in. But the silence feels so uncomfortable.
“I need the money,” I whisper. “And I haven’t exactly met my part of the bargain.”
“Some would say you’ve overdelivered. Transcended . . .”
“It’s not just the money,” I admit. “It would be bad for my business if news of our marriage gets out.”
“You know, you didn’t answer when I asked if wedding planners have to take a vow of celibacy.” The sponge circles, his words turning teasing and light. “Are they not allowed to take part in the blissful state themselves?”
“Please be serious. You were there, you heard Oliver promise to get my business mentioned in some magazine articles. I could really benefit from the exposure. It’s not that I need Oliver’s help; it’s that I’m desperate for it—that I refuse to risk it.”
“Won’t I do?”
“By recommending my services for a wedding where I’m the bride? Your bride?”
“Yeah, I see your point.”
But I’m not sure he does. Fin DeWitt, consummate bachelor and alleged playboy, would like to recommend the services of Trousseau, a boutique wedding-planning service. It would be like Sweeney Todd recommending Mrs. Lovett’s pie shop, or a pyromaniac a brand of matches.
“I’m sure we could come up with another angle, PR-wise,” he adds.
“It looks bad, Fin. I plan a wedding for Oliver and Evie and snag their best man, one of London’s most popular bachelors, in the process? Marrying him within days?”
“We might’ve fallen head over heels for one and other.”
“And out of love again once the divorce is finalized? No,” I add softly. “That’s a plan with very little long-term appeal. I won’t risk Trousseau. I think it’s best no one knows.”
A silence falls between us, but for the ripple and drip of water.
“One of London’s most popular?” he says, moving the conversation back from the topic of us, perhaps being careful not to point out he’s technically no longer a bachelor.
“You already know I looked you up.”
“Which is my point,” he says softly.
“I don’t think your profile will be good for my business.” Or my heart.
He doesn’t answer as he begins to rinse away the suds, squeezing the wet sponge over my back and my shoulders before encouraging me to lie back again.
“I’m sorry if I sound harsh. There’s just such a lot at stake for me.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
But I feel like I’ve hurt him. We fall quiet again.
“What’s your favorite color?” he asks as the soapy sponge slides down my arms.
“Why?”
“We’ve got a few days. Can’t spend every minute of it fucking.”
I actually laugh at that.
“I thought we could get to know each other. We can be friends.”
“Okay,” I answer uncertainly. It’s a nice sentiment, but it also feels a little like a trap. “Probably blue,” I say, though I almost answered gray. “Yours?”
“I like pink,” he murmurs, sliding the sponge between my breasts.
“Do you wear a lot of pink?” The word hits the air in a hard puff as the sponge glides over my nipple.
“Not really. But it’s still my favorite color,” he says swiping again. I let out a shaky breath as the sponge moves away. “How did you get into wedding planning?”
“The official story is I’m a sucker for a good love story. That I’m efficient and goal oriented just means—”
“I can vouch for you there.” I tilt my head to find his lips already near my ear.
I don’t have an answer. Not a verbal one, at least, as he traces the sponge over the rise and fall of my chest.
“You were saying? About your job.”
“I worked in a wedding-dress shop as a teenager. After school came a succession of admin jobs. Then I ended up helping a neighbor with her wedding after her mother died quite suddenly. I was between jobs,” I whisper. Between jobs and a little listless. I’d forgotten about my earlier dreams of living like those women in the shop.
“A new direction.” Fin dips the sponge under the water and over the softness of my stomach, grazing the top of my pubic bone before sliding back.
“Yeah. Baba volunteered my services, and I just sort of learned on the job. It turns out, one of the bride’s guests worked for a small magazine publication, and the wedding ended up being featured.”
Fin repeats the motion, and I release a shaky breath as he dips a little lower, coasting over my pussy.
“And a legend was made,” he purrs.
I don’t answer as my body strains to maintain the contact, my back arching and my breasts rising from the water.
“What about you? Do you en-enjoy what you do?”
“I like people, and I like money, so I like my job,” he murmurs, continuing to swirl the sponge over my skin in soft, teasing circles.