Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
There’s also a text from my mother— Sweetheart, Isabelle just sent me a concerning update about your London trip. Please call when you get a chance. Love you.—and several from Isabelle.
Though my little sister doesn’t seem “concerned.”
Elated is more the word I would use…
Isabelle: OMG EM, you’re famous!!!!
Isabelle: And you look GORGEOUS! Don’t listen to what those pathetic basement dwellers are saying in the comments. They’re just stupid, woman-hating jerks. Your curves are gorgeous, and clearly Oliver was a BIG FAN.
Isabelle: So, how serious is this? How long have you two been dating? And why didn’t you tell me that you have a BRITISH BOYFRIEND?!?!
Isabelle: I hope it’s not because I’ve been too caught up in wedding planning stuff. No matter how busy I am, I always have time for my big sissy. You know that, right? And I am SO HAPPY for you!!!
Isabelle: I mean, could this be more perfect? The girl who made me watch Sense and Sensibility ten thousand times as a kid is now living out her very own Colonel Brandon fantasy with a gorgeous British guy with a country estate!! Have you been there? Is it swanky as fork? A Viscount is a pretty big deal, right? I bet it’s super swanky.
Viscount?
What the...
I switch tabs so fast I almost drop the laptop. My fingers tap frantically at the keyboard, typing—Oliver, Viscount, mid-thirties, United Kingdom—into the search bar.
As the results load, I slowly forget how to breathe…
Because they aren’t all about Oliver.
Half of them are about Oliver and…me.
The Honorable Oliver David Dawson Featherswallow Spotted in Passionate Embrace with Mystery Woman.
Featherswallow Spare Finally Settling Down? Fifth in Line to Throne Gets Cozy with Plush Redhead
EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS: Lord Oliver’s Late Night Lamppost Liaison with Plump Pin-up
The pictures are grainy but unmistakable. There’s me, pressed against a lamppost, kissing Oliver like the world is ending. There’s Oliver’s hand in my hair, then cupping my breast through my shirt. There’s my leg doing something that felt natural at the time, but in photos reminds me of that woman who encourages women to get out in the forest and rub their “minge” on trees.
“Minge” is the British word for pussy, and mine is about two inches from being out for show and tell in the last shot.
And the comments.
Oh God, the comments…
Who’s the tubby mess in the cheap suit?
She has to be American. They have no class. None at all. He should have stayed with Aisling. Why did they break up!?
Poor thing looks like she’s been dragged through a hedge backward after a donut binge. If I’d known the spare loved thighs that thick, I could have set him up with my sister. At least she knows how to use a hairbrush.
Ew. What exactly is going on here? Is she kissing him or eating his face? Has anyone checked on the spare’s face? Does he still have a face?
A man this good-looking could do so much better. SO much. SO SAD.
Ignoring the shame swelling in my chest and heating my cheeks, I click through to Oliver’s Wikipedia page with numb fingers.
The Honorable Oliver David Dawson Featherswallow. Thirty-four. Second son of Viscountess Vivian Marie Featherswallow, née Plimpton, and the late Viscount Harry Herbert Featherswallow, which tracks with what Olly was saying last night about his father.
Fifth in line to the throne.
That part is enough to blow my mind—and explains why he has paparazzi following him around.
Graduated top of his class at Oxford. Owns an architecture firm. Considered one of Britain’s most eligible bachelors…
Apparently, he once dated an earl’s daughter who looks like a supermodel. And an actual supermodel. And an Irish soap star with hair as red as mine, but thighs half the size, who has something of a cult following
Her fans are already in the comments, insisting I’m the poor man’s Aisling Grey and clearly a stand-in for a man regretting breaking up with his gorgeous Irish actress lady love.
Shit!
I’m going to throw up.
I really might.
I’m about to shut my laptop and make a run for the guest bathroom, just in case, when Maya texts again:
Maya: WHY AREN’T YOU CALLING ME? CALL ME!! I’ve tried calling you, but it just rings and rings before going to voicemail.
Maya: It’s 7:10 over there. I know you’re up by now. You never sleep past 7.
Maya: Emily, please, just call me. I promise, I’m not mad.
Maya: But we need to get ahead of this.
Maya: Take a deep breath and call me, and we can start sorting this out together.
Before I can Facetime her, two more texts pop through, within seconds of each other—
Bounty and Bloom: Good morning, Ms. Darling. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to consider working with you on the Fletchers’ gala. A trusted colleague has advised me against doing so. Wishing you the best.
Sunday Best Florists: Please remove us from your potential vendor list, Ms. Darling. I don’t work with careless people. And your behavior last night at the nativity play—and afterwards, if that’s really you in the pictures with the Viscount’s brother—proves you are careless in the extreme. Kindly lose our number.