Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“You’re OK,” I tell Emmaleen absently. But I don’t look at her. Only notice her nodding from my peripheral vision.
She’s perched on the ledge, water dripping from her hair, that white T-shirt pressed tight against her hard nipples. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated in the blue glow of strategically placed lights in the grotto. She’s trying to look calm, but her pulse hammers visibly at her throat.
Rico rattled her.
I sit back down on the submerged bench and pull her into my lap, her thighs straddling mine again. “Where were we?”
She settles against me, but there’s a new rigidity in her spine, a hesitation in her movements. Her teeth begin to chatter. Her mind is elsewhere, racing through whatever threat assessment women make when they realize they’re in over their head.
“You’re OK,” I tell her again. This time softer. Then I kiss her neck, sliding my hands up under the wet shirt to circle her nipples with my thumbs. Her body responds—goosebumps rising on her skin, a small involuntary arch in her back and a shrug of her shoulders—but her mind remains disconnected, processing Rico.
“I like your freckles,” I say, tracing the constellation across her cheekbones.
She shakes her head a little, finally looking me in the eyes. “What?”
“They look like someone flicked you with a paintbrush.”
Her smile is slow, but a small laugh follows. “What?”
“I’m trying to be reassuring, Emmaleen. And take your mind off my asshole cousin. Don’t worry about him. We’re leaving tomorrow morning, and you’ll never see him again. I like your hair, too,” I say, threading my fingers into the wet strands. “It’s kinda wild. Like you. You’re a little bit wild. But not in a bad way.”
Her face screws up as she processes what’s happening. But her focus is firmly on me again, which was the point.
“If you were mine, though,” I continue, watching her reaction carefully, “I’d make some changes.”
She practically snorts. “Changes? That’s not how it works, Giovanni.”
“In my world, it does. I’d change everything about you.”
“Why? It would be fake.”
“No. That’s not how it works. Not always. Sometimes people get stuck in a rut.”
“You think…” She laughs. “You think I’m in a rut? Dude, you have no idea now unrutty I am.”
“Unrutty. As in… out of balance? I’m not a word collector like you, so I’m not familiar with the term.”
“It’s just…” She sighs, then looks over her shoulder.
“Hey,” I say, turning her face back to me. “He’s gone. We’re leaving in the morning. You’ll never see him again.”
She doesn’t believe me.
Hell, I’m not sure I believe me either.
“Rut. A groove or a track that is well-traveled. So the opposite of that is…” I falter. Distracted by her eyes. They’re green. Mine are green too—an amazing true green you only find in a rainforest. But hers are very pale. Sun bleached. Like they were made in the desert.
“Irregular,” she says. Finishing my sentence. “Messy. Chaos.”
“That’s what your life is like right now? I mean, before I came into it?”
She nods. “But don’t ask me about it. I’ll just lie.”
“Why?” I ask, one hand sliding down her back to press her closer. “Why would you lie about it?”
“Because I don’t want you to know.”
“You don’t want me to know you? You don’t want me to know your situation? Which?”
“Both.” She sighs, her shoulders dropping the tension. Finally. “I don’t like pity.”
I’m confused. “What does pity have to do with anything?”
“That’s what you would feel if you knew me.”
“Why?”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, Emmaleen,” I laugh, “that’s just not how it works. As soon as I get back to the pool house, I’ll do a background check on you and then I’ll know everything. So you might as well just tell me what’s going on.”
“No.” Her face hardens. It’s a very firm no. “You can check my background if you want. There’s no smoking gun there.” She looks away, her words drifting off. “Nothing official to find.”
Nothing official.
Interesting. “Do you come from circus people?”
Her frown breaks, but she doesn’t look at me. “You’re stupid.”
“No, you don’t come from circus people. You’re a poet. A word collector. You wield words like weapons.”
Except when you’re scared, I don’t add. Then you just go silent.
“You worked at a coffee house. But none of that is relevant to your current situation, so—”
Suddenly, she turns, pressing her lips to mine with an intensity that startles me. The kiss isn’t tentative or questioning—it’s decisive, almost defiant. I hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected her to make the first move ever.
It’s an instant, electric turn on. The unexpectedness of her initiative sends a jolt straight through me, igniting something primal and urgent.
But it’s not real.
It’s deflection, so I break away. Turning my head until I’m out of reach.
“What… what are you doing?” she stammers.
I think for a moment. Then look at her again. “I get it. I’m playing with you. And I like when you play back. But not like that.”