Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
He shrugs. “I’m honored you played along.”
We both stare at each other for a moment until the ferry docks with a lurch and the cars start offloading. The lane next to us goes first, and just as the seniors in the sedan pull away, I swear the old lady looks right at me and winks.
CHAPTER 17
Blake
Even though I’ve been living in BC for the past two years, it always surprises me how little of the bloody province I’ve actually seen. I guess I can’t really be held at fault when I’ve gone home to England every summer and over Christmas, but even so you’d think I would have taken advantage of some of the stunning scenery and destinations from time to time. Don’t get me wrong, I love Victoria, even if it tries too hard to be “Little Britain” at times (and nowhere near as hilarious as the TV show), but the warm, Mediterranean climate makes up for it. Still, I hate feeling like there’s a whole world out there that I’m turning a blind eye to.
That’s one of the reasons I didn’t hesitate when Amanda texted me about the weekend. The chance to get away was one I wasn’t about to pass up. Plus, she would be there. Plus, she really does need to relax. Plus, well, I have to admit that the pressure is getting to me, too.
I don’t want to tell her that though. If I acted anything less than confident, I know she’d put even more weight on her shoulders, and we all know serious Amanda isn’t a lot of fun to be around. It’s one reason why I can’t help but piss her off when she gets that perma-scowl on her face. Relaxed Amanda is a fun Amanda, and fun Amanda is this heady mixture of sexy and adorable, something I can’t get enough of, no matter how hard I try to rein it in.
And I have been. Even though my immediate answer was that the trip sounded great, all the warning bells were going off in the back of my head, the ones that are loud and blaring and telling me that I’m veering into unwelcome territory. It’s not new to want to keep shagging a girl—if the sex is good, how can you not? But when she’s all you think about, every moment of every day, well then, buddy, you have a problem.
I’m determined not to have a problem. But after seeing her come in public, in Mr. Mean, surrounded by people and the ocean and salt-tinged air, I’m starting to think wanting Amanda might not be a bad problem to have.
Then there’s the fact that when we pull off the ferry and onto the island, Amanda directs me where to drive, and her whole demeanor changes right before my eyes. She’s sitting up in the seat, leaning forward and gazing out all the windows, looking like a child on Christmas morning.
She’s beautiful, I think to myself, and the thought catches me off-guard. It’s not that I’ve thought of her as anything but, but for once she’s not sexy with eyes full of lust or bitch-hot, like when she’s calling me a pig (and god, do I fucking love it when she calls me a pig). She’s beautiful in this wholesome, pure, wild way, like she’s becoming the sum of all the beauty she sees.
“Wow, I remember that old church!” she cries out softly as the road winds past a small stone Catholic church flanked by old headstones, some draped with what looks like Mardi Gras beads.
The road curves away from the waterfront and sailboats moored out in the bay and heads inland toward an impressive monolith of rock presiding over the valley. “That’s Mount Maxwell,” she points out. “We’ll have to go up there later, if Mr. Mean can handle potholes large enough to swallow him.”
“We’ll see,” I tell her, knowing full well that potholes are my nemeses. As is Benedict Cumberbatch.
“Oh, and the vineyards,” she says dreamily as we coast up a hill, vineyards and olive groves flanking us on either side, cascading down the slopes of sun-bleached grass. So far this place isn’t at all what I was expecting. It looks more like Tuscany than Canada.
“We have to do a wine tasting one of these days. There are three wineries, a beer brewery, a cider house, and even a lavender farm,” she says, her eyes dancing as she takes it all in.
“I thought we were supposed to be writing,” I tease.
“It’s inspiring.”
“Drinking? Of course. Spoken like a true writer.”
“Well, you said I needed to relax,” she says. “I say we play tourist in the afternoons, you know, as a break. Or a reward.”
If I can pull myself off of you, I think. Let’s not kid ourselves, writing and wine and sightseeing are all good, but we both know we’re spending this weekend with me deep inside of her, everywhere she’ll take me.