Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
No parties to get to. No stores to shop at. No shiny things to show off.
It’s just her. And me. And the wild, wide open.
The moon looks massive out here, hanging over the water like something out of a painting, making me feel incredibly small in the scheme of things. Making us feel small. And yet, all I can focus on is her. The way the firelight flickers against her skin, casting shadows over the delicate slope of her nose, the high arch of her cheekbones, the deep golden of her hazel eyes.
Avery has always been my best friend’s little sister—the one with the beautiful eyes and gorgeous smile and a personality too big for any one room to contain. But today, on day two of no one but each other to count on, she’s turning out to be a hell of a lot more.
Millions of expected things. And even more surprises.
I mean, she’s a virgin, for fuck’s sake. Avery. Boy-crazy, kiss-crazy, plain-crazy Avery.
Tonight feels too fragile to push anything further—especially since she was mad at me no less than ten minutes ago—but tomorrow, I’m making it my mission to figure out why.
“Well, thanks,” she says, stretching her legs out toward the fire. “But will you change your mind if I complain about how much I miss my warm bed and Starbucks and, ah God, Marty, my nail tech…he’s going to be wondering where I am!”
Shaking my head, I laugh softly and watch as the fire pops and crackles and sparks into the pitch-black night sky. “Nah. I’d say those are fair complaints. It’s all the stuff you’re used to.”
“And what about you?” she hedges. “What are your complaints—other than being here with me?”
“Complain about being stuck here with a beautiful woman? Are you kidding? I could be having to cuddle with Ronnie at night right now. Or Mav. Trust me, I am not complaining about being here with you.”
Avery smiles. “You think I’m beautiful?”
I roll my eyes. “You know you’re beautiful.”
“Pshh. Duh. But you think I’m beautiful.”
“Yes,” I say simply. “You, Avery Banks, are beautiful.”
Avery tucks her face behind her legs, but I can tell by the small creases at the sides of her eyes that she’s enjoying this a lot. That’s no surprise, though. If there’s one thing she’s always loved, it’s bringing a man to his knees.
Her dad. Her brother. Her many boy toys. Me.
We’re all at her mercy.
In Miami, I’m able to keep her at a distance, but here…here, everything is different.
And though I don’t dare voice it, not feeling in control of my own emotions is my biggest, most pertinent complaint.
January 3rd
Avery
Henry scales another breadfruit tree in search of something—anything—ripe enough to eat. With zero luck catching another fish this morning and only one measly fish between us last night since we got here, we’re toeing the line between mildly uncomfortable and one of us is going to snap and eat the other.
Even on my strictest diets, I’ve never fasted for this long, and being that this is the modern era of hot girls, we do shit healthy. No disordered eating bullshit, right? Right.
As such, I’m a proponent of focusing on protein, and one of my fav morning protein options sounds so good, and so unattainable at the moment, I’m feeling violent. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’d freaking kill for a turkey bacon, egg, and cheese English muffin from Starbs right now.
I shield my eyes from the sun, wipe some of the sweat from my chin with my now-crusty Ravella sweater I have draped over my shoulders to protect them from burning, and squint up at Henry as he moves from one side of the tree to the other, scouting like he’s been a jungle bushcrafter all his life.
His shirtless skin glistens under the sun, every ridge and groove of his muscles slick with sweat. His black cargo pants are tattered at the ankles from hours spent trudging through water and sand, and the whole look is just unfair—like some rugged model who belongs on the cover of Survivalist Vogue.
In Miami, my lack of practical skills has never been an issue—nobody’s ever needed me to start a fire or fashion a fishing spear at a club opening—but out here? Turns out, being strictly a book the vacation, not survive it kind of girl is a slight disadvantage.
Still, my brain buffers as I take in the way his sweat-slicked skin practically glows under the golden light, every subtle movement of his body making his stupid muscles flex like they were designed to taunt me. Immediately, my mind spirals back to the fake cologne campaign I invented for him—Masculine by Versace—and before I can stop myself, I start picturing it in vivid detail.
Black-and-white shots. Slow-motion water droplets sliding down his abs. Him being all broody and intense while he stares into the camera while a deep, raspy voice-over murmurs, “For the man who conquers.”