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)
Sarai holds up both hands and pulls a face. “I get the picture.”
“Now you’re making me feel left out,” I complain with an expansive shrug. “You don’t know how lucky you two are. Do you know how monotonous PB&J is every day?”
“I bet you went to some posh prep school.” Mila’s eyes tighten in the corners. “It probably had a team of chefs, white linens, and silver-service waiters.”
“Yeah. No chicken feet in your lunch box,” Sarai adds.
The pair exchanges a look of solidarity.
“I was just trying to help,” Sarai eventually says.
“I know. I accept my part in this too. I should’ve asked what I was taking—what it was you gave me. And maybe the reason I didn’t was because I’d already had a couple of mini vodkas.” Mila gives her head a shake and squares her posture. “I suppose we know now how this happened.” She folds our wedding certificate again, which means she doesn’t see the look that passes between Sarai and me. “We both signed it under the influence.”
I nod, because that is true.
But the only influence I was under was you.
Chapter 10
Mila
“What the hell do I know about that?” The phone still glued to his ear, Fin pauses in his pacing to slide me a reassuring half smile. One that seems at odds with his conversation. “Yeah, well,” he adds, his attention sliding away, “that’s why I pay you. Fine. Sure.” His brows pinch, at odds once again as he glances down at the certificate in his hand. Our wedding certificate.
I wish he’d taken this call out of earshot, because it’s doing nothing good for my anxiety. I’m married. I can’t believe I’m really married. And that the object of all my recent fantasies is the man I’ve plighted my troth (troths?) to.
Fin turns away, allowing me a minor (unobserved) perv of the delectable rear view. His T-shirt stretches tight over his broad back, the short sleeves clinging to the rounds of his biceps. Can’t say I blame them.
The universe has a wild sense of humor, marrying me to him—a virtual but much crushed-on stranger—on the very day I was supposed to marry someone else. I still can’t make sense of how he’s here, all the way on the other side of the world at the same time as me.
Six days. I’m stuck here for six more days. With Fin. More specifically, more worryingly, we’ll be sharing this space. The bridal suite, with its one bed, thanks to the arrival of a prominent Saudi prince to the resort this morning. His family and his entourage have taken over all the private villas; one each for his four wives and the fifth, the largest of the lot, booked for his own use.
I wonder if the Saudi prince would mind if I bunk with him?
I tip my head into my hands as I try to ignore the feelings, thoughts, and sentiments rioting through me. Conflict seems to be the driving sense, shortly followed by a mixture of nervous excitement. My stomach is a mess of tangled knots, and my nipples are so hard I could probably put someone’s eye out.
I still can’t believe Sarai gave me an illicit substance. Yet at the same time, I totally can. When she said she’d get me something to settle my nerves, I thought she might bring me back a Xanax or something. Come to think of it, Xanax and vodka wouldn’t have been the best pairing either.
When she’d prized me from the bathroom, she was holding a tiny glass bottle with a dropper set to the lid. I just assumed it was the local equivalent of Rescue Remedy.
It’s not all Sarai’s fault. I should’ve asked exactly what I was dropping into my mouth.
Of course, topping me up was reckless, and it probably had less to do with the holy man’s sensibilities than the money Oliver promised her. But I can’t even blame her for that, and on some level, I’m relieved she did microdose me. Because if the priest had walked away, I would have precisely zero to show for my efforts.
Except an annoyingly handsome husband. Or an annoying handsome husband.
Either way, I would’ve needed to invest in a decent sleeping bag and find myself a bench.
“You okay?”
I spring upright like a jack-in-the-box, yanking my false fingernails from my mouth. “Absolutely!” I reach for my evil eye pendant and rub my thumb over it. I am absolutely a lot of things. Absolutely losing my marbles. Absolutely losing the plot. Losing my shit. All of it. Especially as the images that keep coming back to me are snapshots of our wedding night, and they’re so freaking tempting. “What did they say? Your legal people?”
Remember that. Remember the mess you’re in. Fin the hot husband is a complication you don’t need.
He drops his phone onto the oatmeal-colored ottoman, taking a seat in the middle of the long sofa. Not so close as to make me feel uncomfortable but not so far away as to allow my complete ease.