Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
“Verbal now,” he professionally announces before letting the faintest hint of mirth be seen. “Paperwork when we’re out of balls.”
Chapter 16
Salay
I love a man who can cook.
I mean actually cook.
That’s like recreational diving sexy.
Microwaving a premade meal?
He might as well be wearing floaties in the bathtub.
Making Camarones a la Diabla from scratch?
That’s basically the equivalence of having him flashing his certified diver credentials at me.
Shirtless.
Add in the fact he’s making one of my favorite Mexican seafood dishes I haven’t had since I high finned it away from home years ago and he takes all that shit one step further past shirtless to being shirtless next to his own yacht.
And the whole “I’d give up my tail and mer kingdom for you” cherry on top?
When said man, is specifically cooking it for you.
Not because he was in the mood, but hey, here’s some for you too.
Not because he was hungry, but didn’t wanna eat alone.
But because he thought of you.
Because he remembered something intimate about you.
Something you’ve never mentioned to anyone else.
Part of you you’ve never let anyone else know.
Won’t stick around to let anyone else know.
Victor Garcia reminds me of deep-water diving.
High risk for a potentially high reward.
And just like when you go deep-water diving…you are not always guaranteed to get said reward.
Or even a glimpse at it.
You have to be willing to gamble.
And that’s totally fine when it comes to life.
Not so much when it comes to your heart.
Instead of staying focused on the older man on the other side of the island – who may just be more delish than the meal simmering on the stove behind him – I drop my elbow onto the counter and flop my face into my open palm, stare longingly fixated out the patio glass door windows.
“You haven’t been out by the water today, have you?” Garcia casually inquires around his careful slicing.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Pulling my attention away from the beautifully lit pool area doesn’t occur. “I know you’re coelacanth fish ancient-”
“Sweet.”
“-which means your memory is clearly not what is once was-”
“Kind.”
“-but I know you remember the water falling from the sky earlier.”
“I believe you kids call it lluvia.”
“No,” I teasingly retort at the same time I redirect my focus to him, “that’s the dangling thing in the back of your throat.”
Against his own volition, Garcia lightly chortles and shakes his head. “Eres demasiado.”
“I am too much and yet not enough all in the same breath.”
“Sí.” He momentarily pauses his lime cutting. “Now, why didn’t you head out when it stopped pouring?”
“Zero needed a luxury ships worth of help understanding some of the items on the ship’s manifest as well as decoding some of the clues from the riddle it was very apparent, he fucked up.”
“So, you stayed with him?”
“Yeah.”
The corner of his lip cockily kicks upward. “You put his needs before your own?”
“For like a minute.”
His stare floods with sarcasm.
“Okay, like an hour.”
It deepens.
“Fuck. Fine. Whatever. Yes, I put Wild Kratts in the lifeboat instead of myself.”
A full fledge beam breaks out onto his face.
“Oh, like you’ve never done it.”
“I do it all the time,” Garcia openly admits to my surprise. “He just doesn’t realize it.”
“He’s very brilliant, very adorable, but very oblivious.”
“Often.”
“So are you.”
“And you’re not?”
“Adorable?” An overdramatic gasp is accompanied by me theatrically placing a hand over my black crop top covered chest. “Of course, I am.”
“Me vas a dar una úlcera.”
“You should probably worry less about me giving you an ulcer and more about the tequila killing your liver, counselor.”
Garcia briefly presses his lips together, abandons the knife on the cutting board, and reaches for the nearest dish towel to clean his hands. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“For a walk.”
“What am I, a Pomeranian?”
“You yip like one.”
This sharp suck of air isn’t for snickers, although it gets them.
“And right now, you’ve got a bunch of excess anxiety built up from being indoors all day that needs to burned off.” He nonchalantly creeps around the island in my direction. “We don’t have time for you to completely live your best mermaid life, but we can at least let you get your feet wet while dinner simmers.”
My lowered jaw remains that way.
“And you might wanna close these,” purrs my cook for the evening as he gives my lips a taunting stroke, “before Master puts something in between them.”
Swallowing my whimper is difficult; however, making it impossible for him to do the same is the mission I have in mind when the tip of my tongue faintly strokes the digit caressing my mouth.
Heated grumbles escaping pull a victoriously vicious smirk onto my face that’s followed by him grumpily storming off.
Impishly, I call out after him, “Change your mind?”
“Changing my shoes,” he replies with his back to me.
Post me slipping into my sandals – not that I’ll be wearing them long – him putting on “acceptable footwear” – because not just any shoes can get covered in wet sand – and guaranteeing the food is at a low temperature – to stay warm versus overcooking – we cross the short distance down to the beach where I damn near instantly ditch the accessories I put on my feet.