“My family is the same,” I agree. “And my grandmother’s rather invested in this being the real deal. I’d hate to spoil her fun right off the bat.”
The rustling behind the curtain stops. “What do you mean, invested?”
“Well, she rang earlier,” I confess. “I thought she was going to haul me over the coals, but turns out she’s a big fan of lamppost kissing. And of yours, actually. She gave her stamp of approval right away and ordered me to bring you round to her holiday party Saturday night. Assuming you’re free, of course.”
A muffled groan fills the air. “Oh, Oliver, I hate that. I don’t want to lie to some sweet old woman.”
“Oh, she’s not sweet,” I assure her quickly, though lying to someone I admire as much as Grandmother isn’t particularly high on my list, either. “She’s a feisty old broad and only has patience for meddling in her grandchildren’s love lives November through March. Come spring, when her garden’s back in bloom, she’ll be distracted by more important things. She just gets bored in winter. Last January, she tried to set Edward up with her dental hygienist and a woman who teaches exotic dancing to seniors at her social club.”
Emily snorts. “How did that go?”
“Awkwardly. Edward was already engaged and living with his fiancée at the time. Matilda didn’t appreciate the interference. Or the reminder that Grandmother finds her so forgettable for some reason.” I check my watch again. Fourteen minutes.“Speaking of living arrangements, you’ll need to move into my flat.”
“Excuse me?”
“The press will be watching,” I explain, pretending the thought of shacking up with Emily isn’t making me slightly giddy. “It would be strange if you weren’t staying with me, considering the long-standing nature of our relationship and all. It would lead to more questions instead of putting curiosity to bed. And my flat is walking distance from Fletchers, Belinda’s shop, and half the restaurants in London. It’ll be a fantastic home base for you while you’re here.”
“All right,” she agrees after a pause, though she doesn’t sound happy about it. “But we’ll sleep in separate rooms. Every night. No exceptions.”
“Emily, you wound me. When have I been anything less than a perfect gentleman?”
“Last night,” she says, her voice huskier than it was before. “Multiple times.”
The memory of just how ungentlemanly I was hits hard, sending scandalous images flashing on my mental screen. Her hands in my hair, her legs around my waist, the sounds she made when I had my mouth between her legs, devouring that gorgeous fanny of hers…
Before I fully regain control, the curtain opens again, revealing dress number two, a safe navy number that lands just below the knee.
It’s modest. Adequate. Completely forgettable.
But the way it molds to her backside is enough to ensure I’m still a little hard when I murmur, “Good enough, but try number three. Let’s see if we can find something a bit more fun. If not, we’ll come back to this one and be on our way.”
“Okay.” She holds my gaze a beat longer than necessary, making me suspect she feels it, too.
The electricity sizzling in the air between us…
As she disappears behind the curtain again, I silently talk my cock down from his ridiculous state, before asking, “Speaking of future plans, would you be up for an excursion Thursday afternoon? I thought we could do a museum trip tomorrow, to prove how snoringly boring we are, but I’d like to show you some London holiday fun, too.”
“Sounds good,” she says. “I have most afternoons free. I scheduled all my meetings early in the day, so I’d have time to explore the city before it got dark. What did you have in mind?”
“Let me surprise you,” I say. “It’ll be easier to fake delight for the cameras if youdon’thave to fake it. And you’ll be delighted, I promise, even as the gossip hounds grow increasingly bored by how banal we are.”
“Okay.” She pauses before adding in a more anxious tone, “But what if they don’t get bored? Even after I fly home? What if being on different continents isn’t enough to make them stop sniffing around?”
The question hangs in the air, and it isn’t hard to understand the worry beneath it—what if this follows her home?
What if it affects her business in New York?
“Then we’ll issue a respectful statement in March or April,” I say, finding the thought strangely sad. “The distance was too difficult, but we remain the best of friends, wish each other well, et cetera. The standard high-profile breakup script. Very dignified, very final.”
“All right. So, I guess you should arrange to see me off on the 5th?”
“Of course,” I assure her. “I’ll drive you to the airport myself. We’ll stage a romantic goodbye for any lingering photographers, complete with longing looks, a passionate kiss, and some sniffling on my part.” I glance at my watch. “How’s it going inthere, Darling? We’re down to eight minutes to pay and zoom out the door.”
“I know! Sorry. I’m almost ready! The zipper’s a little tricky on this one.”
The sound of her buzzing zipper—the same sound from last night when I buzzed her out of her skirt—threatens to hit me below the belt all over again.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, reminding myself thatI’mthe one who suggested this arrangement. I have no one to blame but myself for this zipper-induced torture.
