Maya:I have an idea! A brilliant idea. Call me as soon as you get this. I’m not going to bed until we run damage control.
Maya:I mean it. Call me the second you wake up.
Maya: DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT LOOK AT TWITTER. IT WILL MAKE YOU SAD, AND I NEED YOU FOCUSED, NOT SAD!
“What is happening?” I mutter, rising to pace in front of the couch, laptop balanced in one hand.
I could try Facetiming Maya on my computer—that should work until I can find my phone—but I have to know what’s happening first.
And why half my contacts in New York are texting me, too…
A quick scroll through the rest of the messages reveals a mixture of friends congratulating me on my hot date, apologizing for how cruel people can be, and asking me to text them all the hot gossip ASAP.
There’s also a text from my mother—Sweetheart, Isabelle just sent me a concerning update about your London trip. Please call when you get a chance. Love you.—and several from Isabelle.
Though my little sister doesn’t seem “concerned.”
Elated is more the word I would use…
Isabelle:OMG EM, you’re famous!!!!
Isabelle:And you look GORGEOUS! Don’t listen to what those pathetic basement dwellers are saying in the comments. They’re just stupid, woman-hating jerks. Your curves are gorgeous, and clearly Oliver was a BIG FAN.
Isabelle: So, how serious is this? How long have you two been dating? And why didn’t you tell me that you have a BRITISH BOYFRIEND?!?!
Isabelle:I hope it’s not because I’ve been too caught up in wedding planning stuff. No matter how busy I am, I always have time for my big sissy. You know that, right? And I am SO HAPPY for you!!!
Isabelle: I mean, could this be more perfect? The girl who made me watch Sense and Sensibility ten thousand times as a kid is now living out her very own Colonel Brandon fantasy with a gorgeous British guy with a country estate!! Have you been there? Is it swanky as fork? A Viscount is a pretty big deal, right? I bet it’s super swanky.
Viscount?
What the...
I switch tabs so fast I almost drop the laptop. My fingers tap frantically at the keyboard, typing—Oliver, Viscount, mid-thirties, United Kingdom—into the search bar.
As the results load, I slowly forget how to breathe…
Because they aren’t all about Oliver.
Half of them are about Oliver and…me.
The Honorable Oliver David Dawson Featherswallow Spotted in Passionate Embrace with Mystery Woman.
Featherswallow Spare Finally Settling Down? Fifth in Line to Throne Gets Cozy with Plush Redhead
EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS:Lord Oliver’s Late Night Lamppost Liaison with Plump Pin-up
The pictures are grainy but unmistakable. There’s me, pressed against a lamppost, kissing Oliver like the world is ending. There’s Oliver’s hand in my hair, then cupping my breast through my shirt. There’s my leg doing something that felt natural at the time, but in photos reminds me of that woman who encourages women to get out in the forest and rub their “minge” on trees.
“Minge” is the British word for pussy, and mine is about two inches from being out for show and tell in the last shot.
And the comments.
Oh God, the comments…
Who’s the tubby mess in the cheap suit?
She has to be American. They have no class. None at all. He should have stayed with Aisling. Why did they break up!?
