Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 103530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
“I’ll be eating everything out of the snack bar after I smoke up your weed.” I paused. “I mean… if we’re hanging out. That was presumptuous of me. I can get a j to go—”
“I could use a smoke buddy,” he said. “You are very welcome to hang out in my supercool and much better than your private villa presidential suite.”
“Presidential?” I had to laugh at that. “Did Woodrow Wilson stay here recently?”
He tilted his head in question. And then I felt hopelessly nerdy, but I had to explain myself. When I had a good bit of trivia, I couldn’t help but pass it on. “Hotels began using the term ‘presidential suite’ because Woodrow Wilson had specific rules for suites he stayed in.”
“Ah.” Matthew nodded in understanding. “Scott said your Trivial Pursuit skills are legendary.”
“They are.” Probably not my sexiest quality, but there I was, talking about Woodrow Wilson to the hottest guy I’d ever seen in person.
“There’s bar trivia tomorrow night. Maybe you and Scott can get a team together,” he suggested.
I laughed at the absurdity of that particular idea. “Maybe you and Scott can get a team together. I’m not letting him hold me back.”
We reached the doors of the hotel and he waved away the man who stepped forward to open them for us. Matthew opened the door and held it for me.
“What a gentleman,” I said as I passed him.
“No, I’m blocking your appearance from the security camera. For when I murder you.” He put his arm around my shoulders as we crossed the lobby. “Now, let’s go break some resort policies.”
I got a whiff of his cologne. I didn’t even like cologne. But I wanted my hair to smell like it in the morning.
What was wrong with me? And what wrong choices were I about to make?
CHAPTER THREE
(Matthew)
Who the fuck is this woman?
I could barely remember how to use the key card when we reached the door to the presidential suite. Which I now had to rename. It would probably up honeymoon bookings; nobody wanted to think of Woodrow Wilson on the most romantic trip of their lives.
The more immediate issue was that my best friend’s little sister was brutally hot and incredibly fun, and she was about to be in my hotel room.
The lights came on automatically when I opened the door, and Charlotte nodded with a grudging smile. “That’s pretty impressive.”
“Wait until you see the rest of the place.” I couldn’t keep my eyes off her as she walked in. “Hourglass figure” didn’t come close to describing what was going on under her tiny shorts and distractingly thin tank top.
The air-conditioning in the building enhanced the look.
And she was Scott’s sister. Regardless of Scott’s insistence that he was only worried for my fragile emotional state—which wasn’t the glass castle of pain he envisioned—I had a strong suspicion that he was attempting to protect Charlotte’s virtue. Which sounded like a full-time job.
Sure, it was presumptuous to think that Charlotte would have sex with me. But Scott seemed damn sure it was a possibility.
And within minutes of meeting her, I wanted it to be a possibility. I’d never experienced such an instant, electric attraction to anyone.
She tossed her ponytail and gestured over her shoulder at the great room. “This looks a lot like our villa. But we have private verandas.”
“Private balconies,” I countered.
“With soaking tubs?”
“Just one.” I pretended to concede to the luxury of her accommodations and let her be smug for a second before I hit her with, “And a shabby little rooftop pool.”
Her eyes widened.
“You wanna see it?” I offered.
“I kind of have to at this point.”
I led her past the kitchen to the spiral staircase up to the roof. A short landing hid the utility door—which I hated and had already put in an order to replace with something still up to fire and security code but less industrial—that opened onto the rooftop terrace. From certain vantage points, one could see the entire resort; thanks to artfully placed hedges and railings, the rest of the resort couldn’t see us. A small café-style table and chairs were grouped near the pool, with more seating in the form of sturdy but luxurious outdoor sofas and armchairs arranged beneath a permanent canopy.
I went to the wet bar there and grabbed my stuff, and she followed me, plopping down on a love seat and kicking her sandals off before dropping her feet on the big square table.
“Okay, you win,” she said, toying with the end of her ponytail. “There are advantages to the presidential suite.”
“Thank you for conceding the win.” I took the armchair closest to her. Not sitting right next to her, but not so far from her I couldn’t pass a joint. Safe, respectable, not-creeping-on-my-best-friend’s-little-sister distance.
“It won’t happen often. I’m very stubborn,” she informed me, fully unapologetic. “And I’m being nice and not pointing out that the private villas have direct access to the ocean.”