Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I drink in every detail, and halfway around the room, it includes the most ornate pool I’ve ever seen, complete with blue and mother-of-pearl tiles, a pool deck done in a mosaic of palm trees, lounge chairs—one containing one large goon reading a fashion magazine—and someone drowning in the pool.
Wait, what?
Someone drowning in the pool.
I was so taken with the ambiance when I walked in that I was completely oblivious to the frenzied, rapid splashing. My eyes tear frantically from the pool to the big goon bastard just sitting there, flipping pages so casually. Why is he not doing anything? Whoever is in the pool looks like they’re so far gone that they don’t even have any breath left to call for help. They’re splashing wildly and getting nowhere, just barely staying on the surface.
It’s a damn good thing I came down here, and it’s even luckier for whoever is in there that I know how to swim well, and at summer camp when I was nine, I saw a demonstration on how to save someone who was drowning. It left quite an impression on me.
I don’t think before I start running. I just take off and tear toward the pool. The only dive I know is a cannonball, so I let rip with that, and then I swim like the devil toward the source of the splashing. I can barely get an arm around broad shoulders. This dude is too much for me to contain. I try to make it clear that I’m here to help, but there’s water in my eyes, blinding me. The salt is stinging, and he’s thrashing wildly, trying to fight me off. Now I remember the first part of that summer camp demo and how the instructors said to be very careful because a drowning person can panic and pull you under with them.
I try to swim away and put a bit of distance between us while still holding him so he doesn’t think I’m just abandoning him to sink straight to the bottom. I’m out of breath already, so out of breath that I can’t even call to the bastard sitting in the chair, who probably hasn’t even looked up from his magazine. As the salt stings my retinas, I wave my arms frantically in what I hope is the right direction.
I force myself to blink and open my eyes. Nope, okay, I just waved frantically at a light-up flashing neon palm tree wearing sunglasses. I whip around and scream for help before swimming back and reaching out, grasping what’s available of the guy still splashing wildly, which is basically hair. Whoever the person is pushes back against me, and I try to swim hard and grab hold of his shoulders. I’m looking for traction, and I get it, but not in the right place. I’m kicking a little too frantically, and suddenly, my knee connects with something soft and squishy and junk-ish.
Oh, fuck. I think I just kneed this guy in the package.
The cry of pain that erupts, along with even more violent splashing, pretty much confirms it. If I had any breath left, I would apologize for bagging him, but as it is, any apology is going to have to wait.
A huge splash erupts to the left of us both as the goon finally makes an entrance into the pool to save the damn day. I wisely back off and let him do his work, which he does cleanly and efficiently. He drags the drowning guy to the edge of the pool and hoists him up and over. Then, he gets out beside him, and I realize he went in with his full suit and shoes on and everything. And holy shit, it isn’t just any guy I nutted. It’s my husband.
Darius freaking Anderson.
The goon slaps Darius on the back, muttering in heavily accented English that the suit and set of shoes he just ruined is going to be a hefty bill. Darius coughs and splutters, and god, I feel like sinking down to the bottom of the pool now and staying there for good, but I have to explain, so I gather my courage and swim over to the edge. When I reach the edge, I throw my elbows over it and peek out above the pool’s lip.
“Fine time now to save him.” I swipe water out of my eyes and blink an accusatory blink because, damn it, it’s hard to roast someone with a staredown when your eyes are on mega-fire from salt water.
Darius gags and coughs some more, water pouring out of his mouth until there’s just a fine string of spittle. Hans pounds him on the back one more time, then backs off. He casually walks over to his chair, lifts his magazine, and sits down again, crossing his wet shoes at his wet ankles like nothing happened.