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)
“You don’t sound too sure.”
I roll my eyes. “You just caught me on the hop. I was on my way out.”
“More grand adventures planned? Was it a museum, by any chance?”
“How else will I soak up the culture, Lav?”
My sister visibly cringes. She hates that particular shortening of her name. Lav = lavatory, but she can blame the parental units for that, not me.
“That is so cringe, Prim. Get yourself to the San Tropez for beach clubs, nightlife, and vibes.” Sometimes I think she forgets her days of partying are very much behind her. Since she met Raif, her hubby, she’s very much become a homebody and seems much happier for it.
“Well, that sounds like a nightmare. But did you call for anything in particular?” I make my way to the chair by the window, careful to keep the screen mostly on my face. While the room would easily pass for one in a swanky hotel, the tasteful regional touches would likely be clocked by her.
“I can’t call my favorite little sister for no reason?”
“There is usually a reason and I’m your only little sister. Is something wrong?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. You don’t always have to jump to the worst scenario.”
“I don’t.” I’m just a bit more sensitive than her, is all.
“You’re always waiting for the next bad thing to happen so you can swoop in and slap a bandage on it or something.”
“That’s not fair,” I complain, even as her assumption rings somewhat true.
“I’m not saying it to make you feel bad. It’s just the way your mind works. But I’m fine, and the family is fine. Having a whale of a time yachting around the Med, by all accounts.”
“Good. That’s good.” My words come out spiky.
“We’re thinking we might meet up with them so Daisy can have a little cuz time.”
“Sounds like a plan.” One I’m glad I’m not there for. “So?”
“What?”
“Go on. Spit it out.”
“Fine.” She gives a hard roll of her eyes. “I want to run something personal by you, doctor in the family and all.”
So bandage slapping is okay when it suits you?”
Her mouth flattens into a line.
“Fine,” I say. Complain. “What is it?”
The screen of my phone blurs color, and I think that was a flash of nostril as she plonks her phone down with a clunk. A flash of white and I’m suddenly looking at a cotton T-shirt. One she appears to be wearing.
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
“About these!” Her hand comes into view, palm facing the ceiling as she does this gameshow thing. And tonight’s star prize? Lavender’s booooobs!
“They look like boobs.” Only smaller, I mentally add.
“And?”
Maybe she wants me to read the slogan: “I may be a handful but so are my boobs.” I give a little snort. “Cute.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that only one of those things is true.”
“Rude!” Another blur and her face fills the screen again. “Also, mean!”
“You are a handful,” I reason. “Even for giant-sized hands.”
“Fuck off!” she retorts, her tone aggrieved.
“It was a compliment. My sister, she’s all earth mother at the minute and hotshot businesswoman the next. But always with lady balls the size of—”
“I’ll have you know I’ve gone up a whole cup size during the first trimester alone.”
I open my mouth but think better of my response. This is what she wanted, boob validation? “Congratulations?” I offer carefully and feeling like a tit myself for saying so.
“Thank you.”
“You do know I’m not going into plastic surgery, don’t you?”
“I wasn’t asking you to make them bigger. They already are. Can’t you tell?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not staring at your tits. I can’t believe this is what you’ve called me for,” I add in a mutter.
“If I can’t consult my sister—my doctor sister—about my breasts—then who can I?”
“I dunno, your husband?”
She scoffs.
“Your own doctor?”
“You might as well suggest I ask him to examine my hemorrhoids!” she almost shouts.
“Lavender, he’s an obstetrician. Of course he’ll talk to you about—”
“For God’s sake, I don’t have hemorrhoids. But if I do get them, I won’t be discussing them with Doctor Delicious.”
“Wait, is your obstetrician Mr Travers?” I ask, wide-eyed with wonder.
She nods eagerly. “My blood pressure spikes massively just from sitting in the waiting room. He says it’s white coat syndrome, but it’s not—it’s him. It should be illegal for OBGYNs to be men, let alone the hot men.”
“White coat syndrome!” I scoff. “That’ll be for the benefit of the fathers-to-be, so as not to upset their delicate little egos. They don’t call him Dr. Pussy for no reason.” The man is renowned through the London hospital system for both clinical excellence and for being hotter than hell.
“Ew, don’t tell me he’s a walking HR Violation.”
“The man is deliriously and very happily married.”
“Well, I’m happy for him and for HR, but I cannot ask that gorgeous specimen of a man about my melons.”