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)
He chuckles, ducking his head, but I don’t believe for one minute he’s bashful. Why is it the more charming he becomes, the more uncomfortable I feel?
Because you’re afraid you’ll give in, and not just to him.
“You like to swim but, what? You’re afraid of jellyfish? Sharks?”
“Are there sharks in there?”
His answer is to stare at me as though he might be trying to divine my thoughts.
“I don’t like my swimsuit, okay?” I shove my fingers under my knees and prop my chin to the top of them. “I thought about swimming in my sarong, but that didn’t feel s’right,” I mumble ridiculously. “S’wrong, s’right.”
“But no one’s gonna see. Private beach.” He holds his hands out as though inviting me to check for myself. “You can swim naked if you like.”
“You wish,” I mutter. Then, “And you’ll see.”
“So keep the sarong.”
“And look like a Smurf?” My toes break their sand shackles as I pull the fabric away from my thigh to show him the blue stain.
“Whoa.”
“What?” At the strength of his reaction, I glance down and swiftly pull the dark, flowery fabric back. Hell. I just flashed him a whole lot of hip, cleavage, and maybe even a bit of side boob. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Who’s complaining?” His answer sounds a little throaty. “I had you pegged as a one-piece kind of girl.”
“It is a one-piece. Pervert,” I add with a frown.
“Oh, no.” He gives a slow shake of his head. “That’s more like a half piece.”
“There you go being ungentlemanly again.”
“On the contrary, it was a compliment. Good job,” he adds, ridiculously holding up two thumbs.
“And you think the sun will turn me pink,” I mutter.
“Compliments embarrass you?”
“Compliments make me feel weird.” As my confession hits the air, I wish I could swallow it back. I’ve never been the kind of person who is comfortable with praise. Probably because I didn’t get a lot of it growing up. Compliments weren’t necessary to survival, and survival was what life was about for a while.
The past aside, Fin’s compliments make me feel all squirmy inside. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the way he looks at me. Like he wants to devour me. I also secretly enjoy the things he says, which aren’t exactly a Mr. Darcy kind of admiration.
But I’ve heard worse things.
“Do you think you should be eating carbs so close to the wedding?”
Go forth and multiply, Adam Wainwright.
“You know I’m only looking out for you, right? You wouldn’t like your dress to be too tight on our big day.”
I hope your dick shrivels up and falls off.
Fin might not be perfect, but he would never be so crass.
His nostrils flare, and I steel myself against what he’s about to say. That I’m being stupid or fishing for compliments, or whatever it is that’s making him pull that face.
“You’re fun and smart, and you have excellent taste,” he says, still frowning. “And I don’t just mean in husbands, because the way you dressed the pavilion for our wedding was the best I’ve ever seen it look.”
“What?” I interrupt with little effect.
“We had the most beautiful wedding, even if it wasn’t meant for us. And that was all your doing.”
“It’s my job.”
“You care, Mila. You care about people, and you care about their feelings. You’re kind and you have a big heart. Look at the way you absolved Sarai of her recklessness.”
“I don’t think—”
“And you’ve been kind to me. Once or twice.” Amusement flickers in his expression. “You’re smart and you’re diligent, and I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
“What are you doing?” I think my skin is trying to creep back to the subcutaneous layer.
“You’re conscientious and a little contentious, and in the event of a zombie apocalypse, I’m voting for you to be on the committee of leaders. I fully expect you to have those rotting corpses doing your bidding in days.”
I squint up at him again. “Are you on drugs? Because if you’re not, you might want to consider it.”
“I’m not done. Your ass is heavenly, your hair moves like snakes, your smile is infectious, and your laughter hits me right here.” His conclusion is a fist tap to his chest. He doesn’t offer anything else.
We stare at each other in silence. And I don’t know what to think, let alone say.
Thanks for seeing through me just enough to pull me out of my own head? Or maybe Thanks for being so weird you make me feel normal.
“Right, so . . .” I glance away, my insides a mess of conflicting emotions. I feel icky, but it’s a good kind of ick. A warm, gooey ick. And sweet, like caramel. I love that he said those things, even if some of them were plain ridiculous.
“Nice snakes,” he says out of nowhere. Amends, I suppose.