Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
There’s no amusement in his voice—none—as he drops immediately into a crouch. His eyes move over my face, then the water around me before he gives his head a shake, probably discarding any theories he might’ve had. “Are you hurt?”
Was he scanning the water for blood?
“There aren’t any crocs in Mallorca.” Unless Manu took my shoes already and left his in their place. Crocs, I mean.
“Croc—did you bump your head?”
“No,” I say to the tune of a Homer Simpson, Doh, mainly because I’ve just noticed how free boobs react like flotation devices. Who knew? I hunch forward a touch as I continue to tread water, but the traitorous fun bags keep rising to the top, all sort of: Look at me, Luc! Luc at me!
“What happened? I heard you scream and—”
“I was startled by something,” I say, hunching more. I think I’m mostly okay. It’s dark now, and the pool lights aren’t set so bright where I am. Also, the way his shadow falls over me helps. I might just get away with this, I decide, sliding my arm across my chest to hug my shoulder. I can tread water one-handed, no probs, see!
“Primrose, that was not the scream of a startled woman. It was the scream of someone being murdered.”
“Might’ve been preferable,” I mutter.
His brow furrows as he throws out his hand for me to take. “Did you fall in?”
“No, I just fancied a dip,” I snark, slapping it away.
“Primevère.”
“The water is just lovely.”
“I’m not getting in.”
“That wasn’t an invitation,” I retort, more prim than Primrose.
He drops his forearm to his knee. “I almost hand a fucking heart attack running out here.”
“A man of your age ought to be careful.” The words come out of nowhere, even if my insides turn a little marshmallow-y
“Clearly,” he says with such dry amusement, the word could snap.
I give a little snicker and glance towards my sundress lying in a crumpled heap behind him. And his gaze tracks. Whomp-whomp.
“Like I didn’t already notice you’re naked,” he says, his concern undergoing a transformation.
“Don’t,” I mutter. “And I’m not naked. Just topless.”
“And that’s why you’re in there and I’m not.”
My brow furrows.
“I got a fucking shock, okay? I was about to jump in after you until…” His eyes dip at the precise moment my left tit escapes my hold, my nipple bouncing into the air like a naughty puppy’s nose.
“Stop that!” I squeak, not sure if I’m talking to him or it.
“So it appears there was an incident.”
“Does there?” I answer airily. Or snarkily. It’s hard to tell. I think my ears might be waterlogged.
“Would you like some assistance in exiting the pool?” He holds out his hand again.
“No, thank you.” Not with you here.
“So you’re saying this isn’t your attempt at getting me naked … by getting yourself naked?”
“I told you, I’m not—okay.” This is so awkward. Jesus, give a girl a break. “So there was an incident.”
“An incident with your dress or the pool?”
“An incident with a gecko.”
“A what?”
“A gecko.” Why I decide imitating the noise of their freaky people is a good idea, I’m not sure. “With the eyes, the see-through skin, and the horrible sucky feet.”
“A gecko made you shed your dress and jump into the pool.”
“Was that a question?” I snipe. “It fell on me, all right.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Barely.
“It fell down the front of my dress. Got caught in the waist.” This isn’t funny, Luc.”
“You called me Luc.”
“That is your name.”
“I’m glad you know it. It usually seems like you have other titles, ones you won’t let spill past your lips.”
“Fanciful thinking. And stop laughing.” I splash water at him, and he rocks back, and begins to properly laugh.
“It’s so not funny.”
“This is relief. I thought you were hurt, seriously.”
“I nearly died!”
“From a gecko.”
“It had feet, and they were running all over me.”
“Lucky gecko.” He drops his head as though he’s sorry he said that. “Come on.” He holds his hand out again. “You can’t stay in there all night.”
“I can stay here until you leave.”
“There is nothing I haven’t already seen,” he reasons.
“Like that means anything,” I say, ignoring how my fingers are turning pruney.
“If I leave, they,” he says, pointing over his shoulder, “still catch everything.”
“Oh, balls,” I groan. The security cameras. “Can you turn them off?” My voice sounds small. “I better not get loaded to the internet.”
“And you know, the security team will be doing their rounds later. With their dogs.” He watches my shoulders slump. “Let me get you a towel.”
“You should’ve said that in the first place,” I mutter, then stare at his unfairly sculptured bum as he crosses to the towel warmer. He jerks his head in the direction of the steps at the far end before shaking out the fluffy cotton and holding it wide.
I breaststroke (literally) to the shallow end.