Evie: Ha. Funny. Just like my life.
Yara: Has he got any brothers? Step or otherwise? Second cousins twice removed, but not removed too far from the (I’m guessing) inherited wealth? Asking for your friend. Because I’m not jealous of the hot man in the snazzy suit. Or the Bentley I saw parked outside of Nora’s as I got into my ancient Fiat Punto the other day.
Evie: Your Fiat Punto is better than my ride.
Yara: Your ride is a billionaire.
What follows is a row of laughing emoji, followed by eggplants.
Evie: How did the war of the red panties go the other night?
Yara: A seamless change of topic? No blood was shed though I did think of euthanizing them both. I also thought of you being railed enthusiastically by the hot billionaire when they were shouting at each other.
Evie: I don’t know how to respond to that.
Yara. I wasn’t imagining you going at it! More like ... and here I am with this pair of fuckwits. The words DICKING and DOWN sprung to mind. Just so you know, as your friend, I am here for the vicarious living.
Evie: I’ll bear that in mind.
God knows what she’d think if I told her the truth. Probably that I’m an idiot for fooling myself into believing that anything good could come of this. All he ever does is veer from sweet to asshole, then back again.
Yara: He let you into his car in a wedding dress. That man is down to be your rebound. And I KNOW someone who looks as buttoned up as that has GOT to be a little freaky under those fancy threads.
Evie: Those fancy threads are exactly what make him not my type.
Maybe I should have that tattooed to the inside of my eyelids:I’m not into men with money.
Yara: Said no woman ever.
She sends me another line of laughing emoji.
But it’s true. Because men with money run roughshod over everyone.
Chapter 29
OLIVER
“What’s this?”
Suspicion fills Eve’s tone as she stares at the garment bag hanging on the brass luggage cart. She puts her phone on the table, still eyeing it suspiciously. A shoebox sits on the base, another containing a matching designer handbag.
“That’s your outfit for this evening.”
Her head turns to me slowly, her expression one of distaste and her answer one single word. “Nope.”
“No?” I can’t say I’m surprised, though I act as though I am.
“No, it’s not. See this? This is me, tapping the brakes.” The comedienne that she is, she lifts her foot as though testing invisible hydraulics. “I might have to go with you, but you can’t tell me what to wear.”
“I’m not trying to dictate to you. I just realized we hadn’t discussed what kind of function tonight is.”
“That’s what struck you as strange about tonight?” she demands, folding her arms across her chest. “Not that you hadn’t explained who I’m supposed to schmooze or what you expect me to do?”
“No. I purposely hadn’t mentioned any of that.”As I purposely haven’t mentioned that my deal with Una included making sure there were no images of Eve and Fin floating about the internet.
She narrows her eyes, all kinds of epitaphs brimming behind her pursed lips. Not that I blame her—not that I’m trying to make it up to her with a designer dress.As if a hundred dresses could.I know I’ve been unfair, that I promised one thing and delivered another, as far as the gossip column goes. I know I should’ve told her about my affidavit. I might even have mentioned it was Ariana’s idea. But I didn’t.
I need her to be wary of me. After my fuckup in Garrard, I need her to be on her guard. I’m not talking about the planted photograph of the supposed happy couple but about what happened with the rings. About thinking, even for a split second, that I could deserve her. I could never deserve her, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want her.
