Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“So are you the concierge here?” I asked with a big friendly smile.
He took full offense to this question, frown and all. “I’m the assistant director of operations.”
“That’s . . . wow. That’s pretty high up, right?”
He didn’t answer me.
Small talk was apparently beneath him.
Right. Good to know.
I was about to apologize for the blunder, and about being late, but he was already in the process of taking my bags and turning sharply to walk off ahead of me. I assumed I was meant to keep up with him—he had my stuff, after all—but it was hard because one of my flip-flops happened to break just as I was hurrying out of the taxi out front. Surely Cole realized this, but I was left to sort of hobble along behind him as he kept his breakneck pace.
“Who wears flip-flops to the airport?” he muttered. I was sure the comment was meant to be under his breath, but I still heard him loud and clear. And at that moment, the tight hold I had over my bad mood burst like an overstuffed balloon. So far, I’d taken all the bullshit from that morning in stride: I’d put up with my delayed flight, the stress of being late to my first day of work, the fact that I was sweating through my clothes, the weird motion sickness from the jerky stops and starts in my hellacious taxi ride over here, my flip-flop deciding to break the exact moment I needed it the most.
I think I fired off something right back, like “Who wears a suit on a tropical island?”
His head slowly swiveled toward me and his eyes turned dark and dangerous.
And so, here we are, stuck in an endless loop of torment. I can’t believe what Lara and Camila were hinting about at the bonfire. Cole is the last person I would ever envision dating, and I don’t even need to ask his opinion. I know Cole would say I’m not exactly his type either. Even still, I know our banter and antics evince a deeper, foundational friendship. We’re enemies because it’s easy, our resting state, the natural order of things. We’ll maintain the status quo only so long as we don’t dig too deep or question our relationship too hard.
Now, I look at him. He has all the marks of a bully. I’ve always thought he had sort of an old money, East Coast feel about him: taunting cheekbones, shockingly black hair, dark eyes that seem to cut straight through me, and full lips that would feel so good pressed against mine, I know it. I blink and blurt out, “I didn’t see you at the bonfire.”
Of course he didn’t go to the bonfire, not that I thought he would. It’s not his scene. Getting soot on his dress slacks? Sand on his hands? He’d hate that. He wants to tame the elements, not join them.
“I wasn’t technically invited,” he points out.
“You could have come. No one would have cared.”
He arches a brow, pressing the theory.
“It was just a small group,” I add.
“I had other plans.”
“Like what? Calling the mother ship and reporting your findings?” I continue in an alien accent, pretending I’m him: “Earth humans are more strange than previously theorized. Will need to extend my research exploration trip before I can finalize my report on their habits. Beep boop.”
The side of his mouth lifts in a smirk. “If you knew my parents, you’d realize how funny that actually is.”
“Wait. Are they actually aliens?” I ask with wide eyes and mock solemnity.
He shrugs and looks away, looping back to my previous question when he answers, “I went out on Friday.”
“Out? Like to the bars?”
This is almost more shocking than the fact that he might come from another planet.
His eyes lock with mine as he nods.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him who he went with. Tamara? Her friends? But I resist. If he spent Friday night sidling up to Tamara, flirting with her in a loud bar, their mouths inching closer to each other’s—I do not want to know about it.
“Fun,” I say with a cavalier indifference. It’s like I couldn’t care less about his comings and goings. Go to twenty bars, for all I care! A hundred! “I probably wouldn’t have had much time to talk to you on Friday even if you had come to the bonfire.”
“Oh yeah?”
He sees right through me.
Now he’s amused. His smile hurts me.
“Yes, I was pretty preoccupied with Blaze.”
I all but mime a blow job for emphasis.
This is a total lie. After the marshmallow incident I mostly hung out with Lara, Camila, Oscar, and Théo. We played a trivia game on Oscar’s phone, and then I called it an early night. Blaze never came over to talk with me—not once—but I think he’s just shy. I caught him looking at me before I left, like really checking me out, so there’s still hope.