Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Maybe I’m getting too old to date.
Maybe I should take a break.
Maybe I should actually get married.
That would break the cycle of tedium, for sure. At least there’s nothing predictable about Mila. My closet-dwelling beauty. She looks the same as she did, all dark doe eyes and generous curves, but she’s feistier than I recall. And that’s not a complaint but a compliment.
As I watched her walking toward me a few moments ago, a bride in ivory, I thought how it could be any woman under that veil. Yet the tempting swing of her hips seemed to call to me viscerally.
Hello, lover, they seemed to say. Remember me?
How could I forget? I’ve played those moments on repeat.
But curious, repulsed, or ambivalent, women have wanted to touch the ’stache. To experience the brush of it. Often, in more places than just one. It seemed to me as though they’d talk themselves into it, no matter their initial feeling.
So why shave it off? Why not allow Mila to talk herself into exploring its benefits? I guess it seemed like the right thing to do, especially as my presence here on the island seems to have pissed her mightily off.
But more importantly: Hey, Mila, I’ve shaved a seat for you.
“May I?” I ask, tentatively reaching for her veil.
She nods and whispers, “I suppose.”
I lift and . . . holy fuck. Time seems to stop, the hairs on the back of my neck standing like pins. She is just perfect. Her eyes are so rich and dark, like the color of espresso, just as I’d remembered. Maybe even prettier as the lowering sun brings out lighter striations, the color of a good espresso crema. She takes my breath away, my words, my sense. The setting sun seems to shine brighter, the heady scent of tropical blooms somehow sweeter. How is that? Why?
“You’re beautiful.”
She could’ve stepped from some heavenly dimension, her cheekbones flushed and rosy and her full lips so fucking tempting.
The night we met, when I opened the closet door, curious as to the noise—and a little buzzed, so why not—I was struck by how exquisitely lovely she was. Her eyes were sad and beautiful, but as they lifted to mine, I felt a jolt of connection. The sensation electric. Undeniable.
We talked. She told me about her ex, and I said something asinine about time healing. And how the universe was full of chance and wonder. I’d been right, as it turned out.
“Thank you.” She swallows as her eyes slide away, her neck flushing a deep pink. “But you don’t need to flatter me, and you didn’t need to shave. Not for me.”
I’d do more than shave to feel those soft lips again. To hear those tight breaths. To feel her pleasure pulse against my fingertips.
“I’m nothing if not diligent.” Diligent in my pursuit of you.
She gives a tiny, confused shake of her head. “I just don’t know why you would.”
“It’s not a big deal.” It just means you don’t get to ride it later.
Because let’s not fool ourselves: this marriage might be for show, but the sparks that dance between us defy the things coming out of her mouth.
No, there’s nothing boring about Mila. And my day is turning out to be amazing. I mean, it’s not that I wasn’t looking forward to watching my best friend tie himself forever to the woman he fell for.
Tie himself. To Evie. For. Ever. That shit just blows my mind.
I love Evie—how could I not? She’s amazing. And how she succeeded in molding Oliver into someone almost human, I’ll never know. He’s her person—the one human in the world meant for her. And she’s his. True love is rare, and I think most of us only ever get to feel a facsimile of it. But Oliver and Evie are the real deal. And the things she says to him—the way she busts his balls? That’s my favorite thing about Evie. It feels like she’s always been part of our friendship group. Me, Oliver, Matt, and Evie. The dream team grown.
I reach for Mila’s hands, running my thumb over her dainty fingers. She makes to pull away, so I tighten my grip and give a slight jerk of my chin in the direction of the bay.
“We want to sell this to them, don’t we?”
I counted six boats anchored out there earlier. Maybe there’s some asshole on the bow of one, a long-range camera lens angled this way.
“Yes, all right,” she whispers with a definitive nod. “But just so you know”—she leans in a little closer—“what happened before? That might be a regular occurrence in your life, but it isn’t in mine. Don’t go counting on it happening again.”
And they call themselves fucking friends, I think peevishly.
I like women. I enjoy their company—I can’t help that I’m popular with them. But the definition of player isn’t me, because I’m always straight from the start: I don’t play with people’s feelings.