Poor thing looks like she’s been dragged through a hedge backward after a donut binge. If I’d known the spare loved thighs that thick, I could have set him up with my sister. At least she knows how to use a hairbrush.
Ew. What exactly is going on here? Is she kissing him or eating his face? Has anyone checked on the spare’s face? Does he still have a face?
A man this good-looking could do so much better. SO much. SO SAD.
Ignoring the shame swelling in my chest and heating my cheeks, I click through to Oliver’s Wikipedia page with numb fingers.
The Honorable Oliver David Dawson Featherswallow. Thirty-four. Second son of Viscountess Vivian Marie Featherswallow, née Plimpton, and the late Viscount Harry Herbert Featherswallow, which tracks with what Olly was saying last night about his father.
Fifthin line to the throne.
That part is enough to blow my mind—and explains why he has paparazzi following him around.
Graduated top of his class at Oxford. Owns an architecture firm. Considered one of Britain’s most eligible bachelors…
Apparently, he once dated an earl’s daughter who looks like a supermodel. And an actual supermodel. And an Irish soap star with hair as red as mine, but thighs half the size, who has something of a cult following
Her fans are already in the comments, insisting I’m the poor man’s Aisling Grey and clearly a stand-in for a man regretting breaking up with his gorgeous Irish actress lady love.
Shit!
I’m going to throw up.
I really might.
I’m about to shut my laptop and make a run for the guest bathroom, just in case, when Maya texts again:
Maya:WHY AREN’T YOU CALLING ME? CALL ME!! I’ve tried calling you, but it just rings and rings before going to voicemail.
Maya:It’s 7:10 over there. I know you’re up by now. You never sleep past 7.
Maya:Emily, please, just call me. I promise, I’m not mad.
Maya:But we need to get ahead of this.
Maya:Take a deep breath and call me, and we can start sorting this out together.
Before I can Facetime her, two more texts pop through, within seconds of each other?—
Bounty and Bloom: Good morning, Ms. Darling. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to consider working with you on the Fletchers’ gala. A trusted colleague has advised me against doing so. Wishing you the best.
Sunday Best Florists: Please remove us from your potential vendor list, Ms. Darling. I don’t work with careless people. And your behavior last night at the nativity play—and afterwards, if that’s really you in the pictures with the Viscount’s brother—proves you are careless in the extreme. Kindly lose our number.
Oh God, no.
Belinda is still pissed and up early making calls. It’s the only explanation.
Maya’s going to kill me.I’mgoing to kill me. How could I?—
“Morning, darling.”
I yip in surprise, nearly jumping out of my skin and sending the laptop flying. I manage to catch it—thank God for smallmiracles—and clutch it to my chest as I spin to see Oliver standing in the hall. He’s wearing boxer briefs and nothing else and, unlike yours truly, looks even better naked in the daylight. He’s all muscles and the perfect dusting of dark hair and dancing blue eyes so warm and happy to see me, I almost forget he’s a dirty liar who lies.
Almost.
“How could you do this?” I demand, the words emerging shakier than expected. But then, I’m pretty darned “shook” right now.
His smile falters. “Do what?”
