I rub the back of my neck. "We done?"
"Sure." He bumps his fist into my shoulder. "We still on for taking the flight to wherever it is you’re getting married?"
"It’s on an island near Italy—destination wedding and all that."
"Right. It should be fun, huh? All your friends and family traveling on the flight you’ve booked, and staying under one roof? Imagine that."
A shudder runs down my spine. "Now that you mention it, there’s something I need to change."
6
Isla
"No, absolutely not. I am not leaving a day earlier with you. I am not changing my plans at this stage. I’ve set up all of my meetings and all of my appointments with various vendors on that day, I can’t just up and leave."
It’s been less than twenty-four hours since Mr. Grumpy McHotpants stomped into my office and announced I’m going to marry him. After he left, I stayed rooted in my seat, not sure what to make of it. I was supposed to meet my friends for dinner but bailed. My message stating this in our shared Sisterhood-of-the-Seven group chat, so called because it consists of the wives of the Seven—of which I am now an honorary member—was met with cries of disappointment.
Why is it called the Seven? Because it includes the Seven—so called because there are seven of them, including Liam’s brother Weston—who, together, run 7A, the most successful financial services company in the country. It also includes the better halves of the Seven Sovranos who constituted theCosa Nostra,who have now gone legal.
All have had one hell of a journey to get their happily-ever-afters. Liam isn’t one of either of the Seven, but he seems to have been adopted into their fold, just like I have been by their women. It helps that I was already friends with most of them before they got married. And because most of them are attached and I was the only single one... They loved to hear about my exploits on the dating scene—of which there’s been woefully very little to report lately, considering I’ve been sinking all of my time into this wedding.
Intomywedding, as it now stands. The realization sank in. My stomach churned, and the contents of my stomach threatened to boil up. At which point, I reached for the bottle of tequila I keep hidden in the bottom drawer of my desk, and knocked back a few mouthfuls. It helped, to the extent that a pleasant glow invaded my extremities. My assistant had already left, so I locked my office, indulged myself with a cab, and went home.
Swigging more tequila throughout my bubble bath didn’t help much, except to render me drunk enough to crawl into bed and sleep soundly through the night. I woke up with a slight hangover to find the group chat blowing up with questions about where I was. I ignored all of them and managed to shower and have breakfast, by which time, the headache had receded. That’s when a text message came through from him.
Unknown number:My office. 9 a.m.
Of course, I knew who it was. Who else would summon me in that imperious tone of voice? Which hadn’t stopped me from replying:Who dis?
Unknown number:Don’t be late.
Ugh!Who puts a full stop at the end of their text messages? Mr. Curmudgeon McHotpants is who.
I squeezed my fingers around my phone so hard, I still have the marks on the palm of my hand to show for it. I almost flung the phone out the window… But then, it started buzzing with responses from the vendors I contacted yesterday, when I was still in the throes of planning Lila’s wedding.
That’s when the enormity of the task in front of me sank in. I still have to carry this wedding over the finish line—only this time, as the bride. To say I hyperventilated at that realization is putting it mildly.
To be honest, it helped that it was already eight-thirty a.m. and I had to be somewhere at nine. It meant I could postpone the rest of my nervous breakdown. I took the tube to the office address texted to me by his assistant. Of course, he'd have his assistant do that. He couldn’t stoop so low as to do it himself.
I reached the office with five minutes to spare, then loitered in the lobby until it was ten past. Only then, I approached the reception and was escorted to the elevator set aside from the rest. There, the security person waved the keycard and pressed the button for the top floor wherehisoffice is located. Now, I scowl at the asshole who’s seated opposite me at his desk in his office in a chrome and steel tower in the heart of London’s business district.
In truth, I’m thankful he opted to have this meeting in these surroundings and not a bar or, god forbid, his home. Of course, I’m going to have to move in there as soon as we returned from the wedding—as he already informed me—but this means I don’t have to survey something as intimate as his house until later. For that, I’m grateful.
I informed him I hadn’t yet made up my mind about his proposal. He pretended not to hear me as he pushed a sheaf of papers in my direction. "Everything I said is in there. You might want to have your own lawyer take a look at it before you sign it."
I ignore the papers. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Didyouhear whatIjust said?" He glares back at me.
We hold each other’s gaze for a beat. He has little creases that radiate out from the corners of his eyes. His cheekbones are so sharp, so perfectly sculpted, I would surely get a paper cut if I brushed my fingers across them. As for his jaw? It’s square and rigid, with the hint of a dent in the chin. I mean, come on. Does he have to have that slight dent in his chin? Could the man be any better looking in any way? And his hair... Don’t get me started on that. Those thick, dark strands of his that are slicked back from his face. I touch my own mane that I like to wear about my shoulders. I’m going to have to put it up for the wedding, and then, likely, I’ll have to share a room with him after we’re married. Nope, no way.
"I’m not sleeping with you," I burst out.
He arches an eyebrow.
"I’m also not going to sleep in the same bed as you."
"We’re going to have to pretend to consummate the wedding—"