Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
He rounds the corner, already speaking. “Sorry! Sorry. I got caught by Blaire—she slapped my ass three times when I—” West stops abruptly when I step out from behind the half wall behind the bed. “Holy fuck.”
“It’s overboard,” I agree immediately. “I went overboard, right? With the curls? And the winged liner? And who needs lips this pink? Definitely not me.” I turn to go grab some toilet paper to wipe it all off. “This is not a beach vibe.”
“Don’t you fucking touch the lips,” he says, voice hoarse. “You look amazing.”
“Oh.” Suddenly, I am hot all over. “Thank you. You’re good at this game.”
He drags his attention from my toes, up my legs, over my breasts, along my neck, to my eyes. My dress reminds me of something a flapper from the 1920s would wear: square neckline, thin black straps, falling straight to midthigh and covered in long, rectangular silver sequins that shake like fringe when I boogie. “Yeah. This is a good look for you.”
“You have horny eyes,” I tell him.
“Yeah? Well.” He squeezes them shut.
“I will need you to zip me up, though.” I turn around, pulling my hair forward and looking back at him over my shoulder. “Please?”
He takes a deep breath. “Sure.”
Am I imagining that the air warms when he steps up behind me? I feel the slightest touch at the base of my spine as he reaches for the zipper, and then the slowest, softest, graze of his thumb as he pulls it all the way up.
“There.” Another deep breath, and when I face him, he turns toward the closet. He looks winded. “I can change really quick.”
“Don’t go changing,” I sing, “to try and please me.”
“Well done.” West rifles through his clothing options. “You’ve doused the horny fire by singing my mother’s favorite song.”
“I just want you to know that unlike some roommates of this bungalow, I’m here to serenade whenever you feel the need.”
“Noted.”
“Okay. I’ll step outside while you change.”
“It’s fine,” he says, and looks back at me. “You were right. At some point, we just have to say fuck it, I think. Besides, there’s no mystery left after that bikini.”
He’s right. But I still want to pretend to be respectful. I spend the next ten minutes studying my notes on Dani, Patrick, and Nicola. I am ready for these bigwigs.
A hand comes over my shoulder, and I turn to see West in a crisp white shirt and heathered gray pants he’s rolled at the hem. I didn’t think a man could dress up for a beach party without looking like a knob, but West has done it.
Also, those pants do amazing things for his…
Goddamn.
I clear my throat, but it doesn’t matter. My voice comes out like the mewl of a cat in heat anyway: “You look very nice.”
He laughs, pulling on a sport coat. “Thank you. Eyes up here, Green.”
I drag my gaze away from his crotch. “Right.”
“Ready?” He holds out his arm for me.
“Ready.”
Fourteen
ANNA
Let me tell you something about rich people. They can be on a tropical island, smack-dab in literal paradise, where nothing more is needed but a few tables and some chairs, and they will still find a way to spend gobs of money.
Case in point, according to the itinerary, tonight’s party is being held at the island’s other restaurant, the Boathouse. On any ordinary night, I imagine it’s magnificent exactly how it is. To the naked eye it looks like a large driftwood structure, with no real walls to detract from the stunning beach just yards away. Intricately carved ceiling fans oscillate from wooden beams stretched overhead, and beautiful iridescent shell-covered chandeliers glow above long tables set in pristine white sand. See? Gorgeous. Perfect. Expensive.
But because this is a Weston Party™, it doesn’t end there. Clustered down the center of each table are vases bursting with white orchids and sprays of spiky green palms. The plates are bone china, and they look old, rich old, vintage, with about seventeen matching smaller plates and crystal champagne flutes at each place setting. I wonder idly if Janet had these brought over from her own collection, and then I realize she’d be more likely to just buy an entirely new set of priceless china.
Candles flicker in mercury glass votives. Each chair is topped with a creamy linen pillow. More flowers are arranged in boughs over the bar, and fresh tropical greenery encircles every wooden beam and column. It’s like being in a terrarium on the beach. The air is warm and smells like sea salt and sugar, and I feel slightly drunk before we’ve even stepped inside.
“Why does this still surprise me?” I say, looking at the splendor in front of us. There are so many people here, swarming the bar while ignoring the buffet. You won’t see me making that mistake. Thanks to Vivi’s crash course in being fancy, I spot Valentino and Chanel, Dior and Bottega Veneta. Hermès bags and red-soled Christian Louboutin sandals. Brands I can barely pronounce, let alone spell. It’s a safe bet Janet isn’t the only one in attendance who takes her trash out in a pair of Gucci slides.