All This Time

3 ⦿ in which i make an enemy

I release an unladylike snort with gusto. Wolfram looks faintly alarmed, like he can't remember the last time anyone in his posh circle made any noise even remotely related to a bodily function. I've never farted in front of a guy, but oh my gosh, now I'm really wondering how he'd react. I have an irrepressible urge to do something to jolt him out of his starched, just-so world. The thought is inane and wildly inappropriate and I'm giggling before I can stop myself.

"Something funny?" He draws himself up, offended.

I shake my head quickly. "Look, Wolfie," I say, slipping into what I used to call him when he was being particularly bothersome. I ignore his mutinous scowl. "I'm not the girl for you, fake marriage or otherwise. So just run off and find one of your usual bimbos to enact the part of doting fiancee, because for damn sure it's not going to be me."

    I've never pictured myself as a feminist but I can suddenly see myself fitting the role. My own words make me feel empowered and in control, like I can do anything and be anyone, and that person is definitely not going to be sporting that gargantuan diamond on her finger.

    "I'll pay you." He leans forward, smiling in what he thinks is a winning manner. As much as it makes my stomach tighten pleasantly, I'm not outwardly affected. A dimpled smile that perfect can't be achieved through natural means. He probably uses his mirror as his shrine and pays homage to it with a hundred smiles a day until he nails a smile that will make women's toes curl.

    "Prostitution," I drawl. "Lovely."

    "Is this about Christmas?" he snaps at me suddenly, like a feral dog.

    "You know it is," I hiss back, both my palms flat against my desk as I stare him down. "You know damn well it is."

    I'll skip the whole once upon a time thing because this is no fairytale and even if it was, Wolfram van der Waals would definitely not be my Prince Charming. Maybe Prince Arrogant Toe-rag. Or Prince Degenerate Scoundrel. Yeah, those fit him better.

    Anyway, here's where our story begins. Five years ago.

December 22, 2010 9:45 a.m.

    My best friend's arms circle around me and he almost lifts me off my feet. Me, cranky as hell after a twelve hour journey from New York's JFK Airport and an unholy amount of time waiting for a connecting flight. But all that floats right out the window the second Xander hugs me. Alexander Elliot, to be precise. My best friend since we were in college and even though he graduated a semester ahead of me and the last three months were horrible without him, I forgive him instantly.

    "Oh my god, I can't breathe!" I manage to gasp between laughs. As soon as he sets me down I energetically kiss both his cheeks until they're flaming red and he's laughing with embarrassment.

People moving around us smile as they pass, openly meeting my eyes and nodding their heads to me in acknowledgment. They probably think we're long-lost lovers meeting for the first time in months, and except for the lovers part, they'd be right.

    "Sorry," I tease. "Wrong country. I guess the Dutch don't have any cute mannerisms like the French, do they?"

    Xander rolls his eyes by way of answer. "Is that all you have with you?" He gives my twenty-two-inch roll-along suitcase an appraising look.

    "Hey, I'm a tiny girl who can't reach that high in the overhead compartments. Plus, no upper body strength." I give him a tiny push on his arm to demonstrate. "See?"

    "So believable," he rolls his eyes again.

    "Where did you pick up that bad habit?" I want to know. He never used to roll his eyes.