Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I make a mental note to get a photo tomorrow when the lighting is better.
Unlike earlier when we were headed toward the restaurant for our dinner reservations, Ashley does not keep holding my hand after we make our way through the bustling crowd. He releases it once there are less people and we’re in the turnaround at the hotel.
I’m filled with disappointment and confusion, which seems to be the new theme with me.
We ride the elevator to one of the highest floors, and I haven’t lost the buzz from my one and a half glasses of wine during dinner, smiling like a fool as the elevator car makes its way up.
Smile still when I’m following behind him down the hallway and we enter the room.
Ashley sets the bag on a nearby counter, along with the room key, then begins unbuttoning the cuff of his dress shirt.
“Do you want to use the bathroom first or should I?”
“You go ahead first,” I tell him. “I want to look around outside.”
The view is spectacular—more awe-inspiring than I would have imagined—overlooking the entire strip, so high up in the sky the sounds from below barely carry toward me. The balcony is private, with a chair and table, plus loungers for lying around.
At the far corner there’s a hot tub.
“Ashley, there’s a hot tub out here!” I call out, giddy with glee at my new discovery.
Turning to the distinct sound of a bottle being popped—a cork—I catch sight of the spray of bubbles sloshing to the carpet.
I thought he was going to change?
“Fuck,” he curses, holding two champagne glasses in his other hand.
Laughing, I join him, stepping back inside the room. “There’s a hot tub on the balcony—it’s in the corner. I don’t know how we missed it when we were in here before.”
“We were rushing.”
“Should we put on our suits and go sit in it?”
The idea holds more appeal to me than the dirty, bustling streets and sidewalks below. Even the casino, which we have prize money to spend in.
“Love that idea.” He sets the champagne bottle and the glasses down. “Let’s put suits on and sit outside. I’ll bring the bubbly.”
Perfect.
Nineteen
Ashley
I’m not sure what I expected Georgia to be wearing when she came out onto the balcony, but a string bikini wasn’t it.
And I wasn’t sure what I was expecting her body to look like; I’ve seen enough of it to have a remote idea, but her body in a bikini wasn’t it.
She is all bouncy tits and long legs.
I watch as she struts toward the hot tub, and I’m bloody grateful I’m already sitting in it, bubbles rising around me. There’s a shelf for the champagne and glasses—I’ve poured us each a glass—the lights beneath the water a soft blue.
I turned them down low so it wouldn’t distract from the view, the balcony railing clear plexiglass and unobstructed.
It’s incredible and worth the headache of finagling my schedule to be here with Georgia.
Speaking of Georgia…
She’s mid-straddle, slowing easing into the water, fingers brushing the surface as she lowers her arse in.
Normally I would avert my eyes; instead I watch every inch of her body sink into the water, until she is submerged to her shoulders. Her breasts rise to the surface, wet and glistening, so I distract myself by taking a champagne glass off of the shelf behind me and handing it to her.
Otherwise I’ll stare.
She’s bloody sexy.
Black bikini, wet skin.
“Oh my god, this feels amazing.” Her head tilts as she takes a long sip from the glass in her long fingers. “Look at this view. This is stunning.”
“It is.”
Except I’m not talking about the view. I don’t give a shite about it.
I’m talking about her.
She’s stunning.
I thought so the day we met, and I think so now.
Do you want to pretend for the weekend that I’m not your roommate? Do you want to pretend for the weekend that I’m not just your friend?
Yes.
I hate champagne but drink it anyway in hopes that it calms this fucking nervous shite-storm going on inside my stomach.
I don’t like it—it doesn’t feel natural.
Not to mention, those two questions she asked this evening at dinner keep lingering in my goddamn brain.
Do you want to pretend for the weekend that I’m not just your friend?
What the hell did she mean by that?
Was I supposed to read into it or take it at face value?
Either way, the sentence plays on a loop in my mind.
“Let’s play a game.”
I groan.
“Another one?” I don’t know if I can handle her version of ‘games’—they seem to have me admitting to shite I would rather ignore.
“Yeah, why not? Or do you just want to talk like regular people?”
“You want to play the yes and no game again? Because I’m tapped out on questions.”
Georgia laughs. “No. What if we play truth or drink? You have to answer with the truth or take a drink.”