Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
He conveys his own frustration by raking a hand through his hair. “You want me to choose,” he says flatly.
“No. I don’t want you to do anything. I’m just telling you how it is. Nothing’s changed—I’m not interested in poaching another woman’s boyfriend. And honestly? I’m not interested in hooking up with someone who’s playing two girls at the same time.”
He doesn’t respond. Like the kid in the back of the class who tries to disappear when the teacher calls on him. Nate the escape artist. Which is all the more reason not to waste a thought on the man trying to have it both ways.
Finally, a ragged breath slips out of his mouth. “I’m not trying to play you, Abbey. Yvonne and I, our relationship is casual. And if there’s something here, between you and I, shouldn’t we figure that out?”
The lure is so strong it’s like being pulled by a magnet. I suddenly picture my arms around his waist on the back of his motorcycle as we ride off somewhere no one can find us. Hidden away, it’d be so easy to be selfish.
But that’s not who I am.
“No, we shouldn’t. Because it’s a shitty thing you’re doing to her. My advice, as a friend: figure out what you want. Don’t drag her along only to hurt her later.” I shake my head at him. “And I don’t think we should text anymore. Not even about the weather.”
“Abbey.”
“Time to go, Nate.”
This isn’t at all the encounter I expected, but I’m too tired to hold his hand through his crisis of the heart. I like Nate. I’m attracted to him. But I don’t like being a wedge in the lives of people I barely know, and the last thing I want is to be anyone’s side piece or fallback plan. I deserve better.
Celeste: Fancy some breakfast?
I wake up the next morning to a growling stomach and a breakfast offer. Yet to my relief, I don’t feel hungover. After all the champagne I drank last night, I thought I’d be suffering from nausea and a pounding headache.
I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that Britain’s drinking culture seems to be agreeing with me.
Since I’m utterly famished, I text Celeste back and we agree to meet at a tiny café a few blocks from the flat. After a quick shower, I head out on foot, surprised by the warm-ish temperature and lack of rain. It’s a clear, brisk November day.
The café is packed when I walk up. There’s a line outside to get in, but Celeste messages telling me to come inside. When I enter, I do a quick scan of the crowd until I spot Celeste’s gorgeous head in a small booth across the room. I’m already talking as I approach her.
“I’m so happy you texted. I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry before in— ” I stop when I notice Yvonne sitting on the other side of the booth. “Oh. Hey, Yvonne. I didn’t see you there.”
Awesome. A little warning would’ve been nice.
I mask my unease. Because really, Celeste couldn’t have known that Yvonne is the last person I’d want to see this morning.
“Morning, darling.” Celeste scoots closer to the wall to make room for me beside her. She’s wearing a red sweater and a checkered silk scarf, looking (as always) like a supermodel ballerina.
Yvonne, on the other hand, is actually dressed sort of casual today. No chic outfit or perfectly done hair, just a loose long-sleeved shirt and a white headband pulling her short blond hair away from her makeup-free face. She’s still gorgeous, of course, but more approachable today.
“So. Heard you had quite the night,” Yvonne remarks in that crisp intonation of hers.
I falter.
Fuck.
Did Nate tell her he came by my flat last night? Why would—
“Snogging lords at royal balls now, are we?” Celeste pipes up.
I swallow my relief. “Oh.” Then I frown at them. “Wait. Who said I made out with him? I didn’t.”
“My brother. He texted about an hour ago and informed me he was marrying a yachtsman and that you’re poised to be the future Lady Tulley.”
I sigh. “Of course he did.”
A harried-looking waiter comes over to take our orders, even though we’ve barely had time to glance at our menus. He stands there tapping his foot impatiently and murdering us in his head while we scramble to pick something. This place is so busy I have a feeling they want their customers in and out like some human assembly line.
Once he’s gone, I fill the girls in about the ball, making it clear I didn’t snog anyone.
“I mean, at one point, I think he was about to kiss me,” I do confess. “But his assistant interrupted.”
“His handler, you mean,” Celeste says dryly. “That poor woman. I reckon a large part of her job description is ensuring the young lord’s trousers remain zipped.”