Total pages in book: 16
Estimated words: 15599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 78(@200wpm)___ 62(@250wpm)___ 52(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 15599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 78(@200wpm)___ 62(@250wpm)___ 52(@300wpm)
I look down at my feet on impulse, then back at his face. I’m relieved to find his eyes are on the painting over the bookshelves and not me. I see his gaze shift to the porcelain mermaid mounted on one of the shelves before shifting to the little glass-encased wooden schooner with the sheepskin sails.
“Nice.” That’s all he says about the place, but I can see he’s surprised by it—maybe even impressed.
“Come this way.”
The living area is impressive, I guess, but it doesn’t matter to me. When I’m here, I want to feel a world away from things like that. When I first bought her, I thought about gutting the inside, doing something more minimalist than the last owner, a fine art dealer, preferred. Never had the time, though—not since everything that went down in 2014.
I open the refrigerator and glance over my shoulder. “Want some Gatorade?”
He rubs his right palm over his left arm—scratching an itch or a self-conscious mannerism?—and shakes his head a little absentmindedly as his gaze moves once more around the room. “Doesn’t matter what.”
His eyes lift to mine, and I hold my breath. But there’s no recognition on his face. Not even the do-I-know-him squint I get so often lately.
“Do you have a phone on you?” It seems unlikely, but I have to ask.
He shakes his head.
“Is there anyone I can call?”
He rubs his temples. “Maybe the cruise line?”
He gives me the ship’s name again, and I get the call going, set it to speaker mode, and leave my phone on a countertop—just far enough away from him so he can tell I don’t want him to pick it up.
I slice some fruit while he waits on the line, stealing glances at my unexpected guest as he shifts his weight and rubs his forehead, kneads his shoulder. Yeah…I think he’s pumping iron at least three times a week.
I set the fruit aside and pour some Gatorade for him. Then I lean back against the counter and fold my arms.
I wait for his ocean eyes to come back to mine. Funny how they don’t. He has no interest in me. And for once in my life, I don’t like that.
2
Vance
I feel him watching me. My temples are throbbing—his fault. First he tried to bash my skull in with a scotch bottle, and then he got so close when fixing it that his cologne filled my whole damn head. I can still smell him.
Now I’m standing in his swanky kitchen, trying not to put too much weight on my sunburned feet, pressing one palm against the underside of the counter because I feel sort of dizzy, and motherfucker won’t quit staring at me.
I’m thinking of saying something when a woman comes onto the phone line, and I have to recount the sad tale of my disappearance. By the time I’ve got that all talked out—she’s marked me “not missing” and given me instructions about catching up with the ship at its next port of call—the ache in my head is bad enough to make me grit my teeth, and my throat’s desert dry again.
As I reach for the phone to end the call, he steps over, scooping it up and setting a tall glass and three Advil in its place.
His eyes hold mine. “You should drink more.”
They’re like nothing I’ve seen—fading from brown around the pupil to hazel and then flaring darker forest green around the iris’s outer rim. For just a second, staring at them, I feel a kick of panic, like I’m caught in undertow.
I toss the Advil back, and then the Gatorade. When I lower the glass, I find him staring at me again. I wipe my mouth and lift a brow—but it’s the slashed one. I hiss in surprise, and his face twists in sympathetic pain.
“Sorry again.”
“That’s not fucking good enough.” I hold his green-brown gaze, trying not to smile.
He grins, revealing dimples. Fuck, he’s easy on the eyes. Thick brows and those feline eyes…strong cheekbones. He’s got lush lips and a nice, hard jaw. With his soft-looking, gold-blond hair, he reminds me of the old Ken dolls my mom kept in a trunk in the attic. He’s handsome in a prototypic way that should be boring. Instead, I find it captivates me.
He steps around the countertop, beckoning me into the fancy ass living space with a wave. “Let me make it up to you.” I follow him across a Persian rug, past an abstract painting by someone I should probably know and a crazy good porcelain sculpture that I guess must be mounted right onto the shelf.
When he leads me down a sleek, hardwood hall, I can feel the blood rush in my head. He stops a few paces in, opens a closet door, and nods at—a ladder?
“Indoor shower’s on the fritz, but climb up this, push the hatch up, and you’ll be in an outdoor one up on the deck. Best shower view you’ve ever had. I’ll leave some clothes here on the ladder for you when you’re finished.”