Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
She huffs audibly. She might say stupid stuff when she’s worried or nervous, but me? I prefer to dig my holes a little deeper as I lean into the lascivious character she’s made me in her head. Or maybe that really is me. Fuck, I don’t know anymore. I don’t know whether I’m on my ass or my head. Not with her. All I know is she can flay me with one look and turn me on with the next, and I just can’t stand the thought of her walking away.
So I’ll do what it takes to keep her. Stick to the plan.
“Can I get you a drink?” The scent notes of earth and peat rise as the liquid hits the bottom of a lowball glass.
“No. Thank you,” she says stiffly. “I’m tired,” she adds. “If you just tell me which room is mine, we can talk tomorrow.”
I press the lid onto the decanter and slide it back in. Close the doors.
“Any of them.” I turn to face her and lean back against the cabinet, hooking my elbow over the top. “Doesn’t matter which if it isn’t mine.”
“I’m not sleeping with you. I thought I’d made myself clear.”
“After your earlier one-eighty, I thought I’d just put it out there.”
I thought I could make this work without telling my friends the truth. That she doesn’t love me. That I’m maybe just useful. That I thought I could make her fall in love with me in the meantime. Not that her admission changes anything. Not for her, at least. My friends are more like family. They’d help bury the bodies, no questions asked. I know they’ll extend this to Mila. For me.
“I’m sorry I blindsided you. Lying to them was more difficult than I thought it would be.”
I tilt my glass to study its contents in the lamplight. “It doesn’t matter.”
Mila’s eyes drop to my lips as I tilt my head, savoring the subtle slide of burning liquid down my throat. She folds her arms across her body, its language turning electric, kindling a spark of fury that could light a fire. Maybe she’s angry at herself. Maybe it’s me.
“Did you know I’d be on that island when you arrived?”
Well, that answers that question, I guess.
“How could you not tell me? Didn’t I deserve the truth?”
“The truth that I handed Evie your business card? It didn’t seem important. And no, I didn’t know you’d be there. But yes, I hoped.”
“It seems like too much of a coincidence, you and me being there at the same time, all the way on the other side of the world.”
“I didn’t ask her to hire you, Mila. I can’t say it any plainer than that.”
“I believe you, even if—”
“You want the truth?” I move from the cocktail cabinet like a striking snake. “The truth is I carried your business card in my wallet for months, too chicken to call you myself. I was so goddamned into you that you plagued my fucking dreams. But I couldn’t make myself call because what happened between us wasn’t some hookup. It felt real. Too real. So I gave Evie your card and let fate take care of the rest.”
“No, not fate. Magic mushrooms did the rest. It’s all such bullshit,” she spits, her eyes glittering as they move over me with revulsion. “You should’ve told me, Fin. I’ve never been so embarrassed as I was in that limo.”
“Aw, babe,” I say with an exaggerated pout.
Her eyes harden. Out of all the things I’ve called her, I’d never gone generic.
“You should take a leaf out of my book. Just don’t give a fuck what people think about you.”
“That’s exactly the kind of thing I’d expect a man like you to say.”
“A man like me?” My voice is quiet, my tone hard.
“A fuckboy,” she says, emphasizing the fricative with vitriol.
With a low, guttering laugh, I throw back my drink then set it down, the glass connecting with the walnut harder than I anticipate. “A fuckboy,” I repeat, as though trying the title on for size.
“Yes. The top-shelf version.”
“Tell me, what is that?” I step closer, not threateningly, but her eyes still narrow. “A man who doesn’t respect women?” I ask, coming to a stop in front of her. “One who’s selfish? Who doesn’t care who he hurts?”
“A fuckboy,” she enunciates, “is a man who only cares about getting his dick wet, whether with Princess Marta, with me, with Caroline. Whoever.”
“I think you mean Charlotte.” Worse, I say it with such soft familiarity. What the fuck am I doing? I know what I want to do—shake Mila for her ridiculousness. “As for getting my dick wet, my preference would be with my little slut muffin,” I add, my words turning to a taunt. “Because, babe, your pussy got me plenty wet.”
“Not anymore.” Her hand twitches by her side, and for a minute, I wonder if she’ll lift it to slap me.