Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
I arch a brow. “You’re a photographer?”
She shrugs. “Not really. It’s just a hobby. What about you? Have you been all over the world and seen all the things?”
“No. I’ve been to Europe several times, but I work a lot, too. And I’m not a fan of travelling alone.” I’m shocked to hear that last sentence leave my mouth. I’m not usually the kind who confesses those sorts of things. Not even to myself.
Her brow furrows. “And why are you alone when you don’t want to be?”
“What was the word you used the night we met? Bastard, I believe it was?”
“So you would have had me believe. But you also told me that we’d have to pretend not to know each other if we ran into each other in town,” she shoots back without missing a beat. “And the very next morning you asked me to breakfast.”
I grunt. “Touché.”
She grins. “So why are you alone? The real reason? Are you too picky? Too bossy? Stare too long at people with your icy vampire eyes?”
“Do vampires have icy eyes?” I ask, amused. “I thought they had eyes that glowed red in the dark. Like a wolf’s.”
“Well, Weaver,” she says in an overly patient tone, “vampires aren’t real.” I smirk in acknowledgement of her joke and she continues, “but in the vampire movies Elaina made me watch in junior high, they all had icy eyes. Even if they were brown, they were still…cold looking. Like they’d been frozen and were only just starting to thaw.”
“I don’t know,” I say, wondering if I’m starting to thaw, if that’s the reason for this strange ache I feel with this woman. “Could be all three. Or maybe I’m defective in some other way.”
“Like what?” she asks, proving she’s still the brave, blunt girl who got under my skin the night she crept onto my yacht.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Maybe you can tell me, if you decide I’m worth a month of your time.”
“A month, huh?” She presses her lips together. “That’s longer than you said before.”
“My family’s affairs are proving more complicated than I anticipated.” I ignore the inner voice taunting me for changing my mind about remote work so quickly. It really would be easier to manage the transitions I want to make to the Tripp business model from Sea Breeze. And if I had a compelling, enjoyable reason to stick around as well…
“What’s your high-powered investment firm going to say about that?” she asks. “Don’t they want you back in the city, doing important things with money in your fancy suit?”
I couldn’t stop the smile pulling at my lips if I tried. “I didn’t tell you I worked for an investment firm.”
She rolls her eyes with a self-conscious laugh. “Okay, fine, so maybe I did a little digging once I found out your name. Just to make sure you weren’t a sociopath. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I echo, still grinning.
She laughs again and reaches down to swat my leg under the table. “Stop. Stop looking so pleased with yourself. I’m not obsessed with you or anything. I’m just a naturally curious person.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, biting my lip as our waiter approaches with the first course. “We’re about to put that to the test, Ms. Sullivan.”
Our server sets the appetizers down, refills our water glasses, and leaves with a quick, “Bon appétit,” that reminds me why I love French restaurants. I’d much rather have a server who’s politely disinterested than one of those waiters who hover over you the entire meal, asking how everything’s tasting.
“What is that?” Sully asks, eyeing the small cast-iron dish between us with suspicion. “It smells amazing, but…”
“But?” I prompt after a moment, reaching for her appetizer plate.
“But I read the menu. I saw the appetizers,” she says, the uncertainty in her gaze increasing as I slide a slice of toasted bread and two steaming hot escargots onto her plate. “There was nothing that sounded like anything I’d want to put in my mouth.”
“You’ll like this. They’re drenched in butter, white wine, and garlic.”
She hums beneath her breath as she takes the plate from me and lifts it closer to her face, examining the shining brown lumps beside the bread. “Okay, but what are they?”
“Snails,” I say, suppressing a laugh at the gagging sound that bursts from her lips. I slide two onto my own plate and collect a slice of bread. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid,” she says, setting her plate down in front of her, but making no move to reach for her fork. “I’m disturbed. Confused.” She studies the plate for another beat before adding in a softer voice, “Vaguely repulsed.”
“Oh, come on,” I say, sliding a perfectly cooked snail onto my bread. “If you’ve eaten a mussel or an oyster, you can eat a snail. They all come out of a shell, and from a visual standpoint, oysters are far more repulsive.”