Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
“Your wish is my command.”
“But no sex until I remember?”
“No sex until you remember.”
“Fine … but the second I do, you have to eat me out for forty minutes.” She raised her brow. “Like you did at The Versailles Palace.”
“It was fifty minutes, and of course.”
“While tracing the letters of my tattoo.”
“Deal.”
The chances she’d want anything to do with my dick, let alone any other organ in my body, after she regained her memory were slim.
I had no one but myself to blame.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Oliver
Age nineteen.
“Happy eighteenth birthday to me.” Briar Rose lifted her tequila shot skywards. “Bottoms up.”
She pressed the glass to her lips and tipped her head back. I did the same, searching her for signs of an impending breakdown.
Her parents hadn’t shown up to their Geneva home to celebrate her birthday – or her graduation. They’d left a message with the housekeeper. Something about receiving a last-minute invitation to Martha’s Vineyard from a rising senator.
Since then, Cuddlebug had erupted into a crying mess every other hour. So, I made the executive decision to pull her out of that house with the depressing memories soaked into its walls.
We took the train to Paris overnight to spend her birthday somewhere neutral. As soon as we got here, she dragged me to a shady parlor, where an inked-up goth girl tattooed her hipbone.
For her next conquest, she wanted to pump her stomach full of booze for her first legal drinking experience.
I arched an eyebrow, studying my distraught girlfriend. “Are you okay?”
She looked like something out of a Pinterest board with her blush sequin minidress and her hair up in a Chanel ribbon.
Briar Rose rapped her knuckles on the sticky bar, swirling her index finger for another round of drinks. “Peachy. Never been better.”
The bartender sidled up to us, dishing out four glasses for a flight. As we waited, Briar Rose snatched up my untouched shot, swinging it back like a pro. Our years of sneaking drinks here and there obviously hadn’t gone to waste.
She bit into a slice of lime, discarding it without a wince. “Thanks for coming here.”
I flung my arm over the back of her stool, searching her face. Legally, she could drink in France, but I knew getting shitfaced in the middle of a crowded Paris bar wouldn’t help her feel better.
I wasn’t prone to panic. But I felt pretty panicked right now. Briar Rose having shitty parents wasn’t news to me. However, seeing her defeated, frustrated, hopeless sure was. She usually kept her emotions at bay, resilient and steadfast.
“Of course.” I flicked the tip of her nose. “I wouldn’t miss seeing you for the world.”
She ran the tip of her finger over the rim of her empty shot glass, staring into the bottom of it. “But you weren’t supposed to come this summer.”
“It’s fine.” I swiveled in my seat, readjusting the blue rose tucked behind her ear with a smile. “There is nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.”
Calling the last couple days a shit show would offend shit shows all over the world. For the first time in fourteen years, my family hadn’t scheduled a summer in Geneva. Instead, Dad had rented a lake house in Central New York for a month.
Not for vacation. Nope. He made it clear he expected me and Seb to take part in an intense internship in Savannah. Within the next ten years, Dad anticipated handing over The Grand Regent to us, and he’d be damned if we drove the chain into the ground.
It was time. In a few months, I’d enter my second year at Harvard. Seb just finished high school early, too, so neither of us could worm our way out of it.
I planned to spend next month traveling Europe with Briar Rose before she joined me at Harvard. We’d officially made it. Or so I thought.
A couple nights ago, she called me in tears, hyperventilating over being alone in that damn house. I dropped everything and boarded a plane to Geneva, leaving a trail of disoriented staff, one very pissed-off Sebastian, and an overbearing father with smoke racing out of his ears.
I leaned over to kiss her forehead. “I came, anyway.”
She whipped her hair over her shoulder at the same time, unintentionally blocking my lips. I could still catch her breath. Stale, sour alcohol. I wanted to kiss away her drunkenness, her pain, her distress. Wanted to drink it from her lips. To carry the burden of her heartache.
“Well, Cuddlebug, I think it’s high time for dinner.” I clapped once, flashing her my winning smile. “Who’s with me?”
“Hmm. Toddlers, pensioners, and people who don’t own a watch?” She arched an eyebrow. “It is five in the afternoon. Screw food.”
“Glad to incorporate it into our sex, if that’s what you want. But you still need to eat.”
“Not hungry.”
“Baby, I love you more than porn, pizza, and cold Belgian beer on an August afternoon, but if you don’t pad your stomach with carbs, you’re going to spend the night at the hospital for alcohol poisoning, and that is a lame way to celebrate eighteen years on this planet.”