Good that Evie wasn’t there, is all I can say. She’s also a good woman, but it definitely wouldn’t have gone the same way.
As for Clodagh, she’s yet to mention my excursion to her mother, mainly because she was so enamored with the show, and yapped about it all the way home. The only other thing we talked about was getting her a cookie jar. Apparently, a jam jar won’t be big enough to store all my sweary transgressions.
“I knew about the romance novels,” Fin taunts. “But I didn’t know you were into fairy tales.”
Jaysus, you make one reference toBridgerton, and you’re forever labeled. So I cracked the spines on one or two of Letty’s novels. So what? I know I’m not the only one.
“I hear romance books are more your line,” I retort with a careless gesture.
“I already have an abundance of romance in my life.”
I scoff, mildly pissed off. “It’s like you don’t even remember you snagged Mila by accident. Personally, I’m still not convinced she isn’t suffering from Stockholm syndrome, given the beginning of your relationship. An isolated island, no one to turn to but you. Sounds more like the beginnings of a true crime podcast than a romance.”
“What wrongs have I committed to deserve spending my Saturday evening with you two?” Oliver’s tone is withering as he reaches for his wineglass.
My attention pivots. “How long have you got?”
“The time it would take to list them would turn your wine to vinegar,” Fin adds.
“My conscience is as clear as the driven snow.” Oliver gives a haughty sniff.
“I wasn’t aware you had a conscience,” I say.
“Sure he has. It’s a recent addition to the stiff-upper-lipped, stick-up-the-ass Brit model. A conscience called Evie.” Fin’s attention glides my way again. “But back to you. What’s this I hear about you haring around London after a woman?”
“I don’t know. What is it you hear?”
“Enough to pique my interest.” He glances down, lowering his lashes like a coy debutante.
“That might work on Mila, but it’s not working on me.”
“Come on, give it up. Who is she?”
“Why, Fin. You’re practically frothing at the mouth.”
“Yeah, yeah. Creamin’ in my panties too.”
My answer is to borrow Oliver’s glower.
Fin continues to poke. “Am I not allowed to be happy for my friend getting back on the proverbial horse,Mr. I’m-not-interested-in-women?”
“When did I ever say that?”
“When you were in New York in October, and things haven’t changed since. Frankly, I’ve been worried you might be considering the church.”
“Be fair, Phineas,” Oliver says with a wave of his glass. “After a day spent in the company of ex-girlfriends, we might all consider becoming men of the cloth.”
I frown again, Oliver’s way this time. It’s very fucking clear these two have been talking about me.
“So imagine my surprise at what my darling wife had to tell me after the theater this afternoon.”
“I said I wasn’t interested in casual sex,” I retort, pointing a finger Fin’s way.
“Please let’s get this over with,” Oliver adds almost wearily. “I would like to eat dinner sometime this evening.”
“Are we eating here?” is Fin’s only (complaining) response. To be fair, the food here is atrocious—like something served out of history. I’m convinced they’re still using Mrs. Beeton’s cookery book.Tough beef and soggy veg, but at least the whiskey is good.
“I wouldn’t,” another voice puts in. “It’s duck à l’orange. Or the Dover sole. Again.”
