“Flattery?”
“Honesty.” Even I hear the note of alarm in my answer.
“Honesty is entry-level human behavior, Oliver.”
“In the quest for the truth, then. Allowing George to misunderstand wasn’t a purely noble gesture. I find there’s still a thousand dollars’ worth of reasons lurking at the back of my mind.”
She gives a delightfully dirty laugh. “Lurking, huh? Well, try not to dwelltoolong.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Might it help to know I recently considered neutering my ex-fiancé?”
I press my elbow to the arm of the chair and my chin to my fist. “You know, I think I might be perverse.”
This time, it’s Eve’s hearty laughter that disturbs the viscount.
“You know you can take that.” Her eyes sparkle over the top of her old-fashioned champagne saucer as I ignore the incessant buzzing of my phone.
“I don’t want to.”
“That’s clear.” She sets the glass down. “It’s been ringing on and off since we got here.”
“You’re right. I should just turn it off completely.” I slip my hand into my jacket pocket, pulling out my phone.
“That’s not what I meant. I don’t want to completely hijack your day.” Despite three glasses of champagne, she looks genuinely distressed at the prospect.
“Hijack away,” I say, powering down my phone, though not before I see a text from my business partner, Fin.
Did you hear about Mitchell Atherton? The fucker got dumped at the altar earlier today.
It’s not even the most remarkable thing about the situation, because how in the hell did he land a woman like this? She’s attractive, funny, and doesn’t seem at all stupid. There must be something I’m missing.
“I hope you’re not missing anything important because of me.”
“Nothing that can’t wait. You were telling me what happened to the poodle.” Mitchell is a dog. Perhaps that’s the connection, given Eve is a veterinarian.
“Weird, I thought you were telling me what my ex did to earn your hate.”
I raise my foot to my opposite knee. “Hate is such a strong word.”
“Your feelings aren’t strong?”
Weapons-grade titanium hate, not that I’ll say so. “Do I look enraged to you?”
Her gaze falls over me with the invitation, and pleasure surges through me.
“You think I’m projecting,” she says, reaching for her glass. As she sets it to her lips, sunlight turns the bubbles the color of her hair.
“It wouldn’t be without good reason.”
She gives her head the tiniest shake. “Except when I mention his name, your jaw tenses and you get a tiny twitch here.” She taps a fingertip to the corner of her eye.
“A twitch? I don’t think so.” My denial is all drawl and no substance. I won’t allow that arsehole to get under my skin. I satisfy myself with the knowledge that I’m a patient man. He’ll get what’s coming to him eventually.
“Fine, you don’t have a twitch,” she replies without an ounce of conviction. “Maybe I should have one, given my imminent future might include deportation.”
“We don’t deport people for throwing balls of paper in wedding ceremonies.”
