Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
This is a man who gives zero fucks.
“I’m sorry.” I’m not above apologizing. I’m in the wrong. I shouldn’t have come here tonight. Shouldn’t have scaled his fence. Shouldn’t have stripped out of my clothes and dove into his luxurious swimming pool like I owned the place. “If you’ll let me get my things, I’ll be out of here in two seconds. You’ll never see me again. I promise.”
His full mouth arches into a devilish smirk, and his silence sends a shiver down the back of my neck.
I’ve got less ground to stand on than a mouse who wandered into the den of a ravenous lion.
“You’re August, aren’t you?” I take a friendlier approach.
There are three Monreaux boys. Soren’s the oldest and a bona fide rock God. I’d know his face anywhere thanks to the billboards all over town any time they tour through Missouri. Then there’s Gannon. I’ve never seen him, but I know he’s quite a bit older than me. August is the baby of the family, though if it’s truly him standing before me, there’s nothing infant-like about him.
He was only two when his mom died. She was jogging—near our house actually—when she was struck by a car and left to bleed out on the side of the road.
His father tried to blame my father for her death.
They have a history …
A dark, rooted, tragic, ugly history that I don’t dare discuss around him and Mama unless I want to see his eyes turn cloudy and send Mama off to the bedroom in a fit of tears. A history so shrouded, I don’t even know the half of it—I only know that we don’t talk about it.
If my parents knew I was here, they’d kill me. Figuratively, of course.
My entire life, it’s been made abundantly clear that the Monreaux family is off-limits in every sense of the word. I’m not to go near them, not to breathe their toxic air. Not to so much as even whisper their name under our roof.
Being here, in these waters, on this property, is blasphemous to the Rose family name.
I didn’t come here out of spite.
I didn’t come to hurt anyone or to prove some kind of point.
But if my parents found out, they’d be devastated.
“I’m the one who should be asking questions, don’t you think?” He takes another drink, his gaze all but penetrating my soul.
He isn’t wrong.
This isn’t the time to be friendly. Last thing I need is August telling his daddy that the Rose girl broke into their back yard and was skinny dipping in their pool. Word would get out. Phone calls would be made. Coronaries would be had. My parents probably wouldn’t believe it anyway, but that’s not a risk I’m willing to take.
Before I have a chance to utter a single word, August makes his way to a stone-covered cabana and returns with a fluffy white towel. Crouching by the ledge, he hands it to me. It’s a simple exchange, yet the uneasy flutters in my chest do double-time when our fingers graze.
“So what name should I give the police when they arrive?” He rises, towering as he peers down. “You look like a … Harper to me. Chloe. No. Addison. Definitely an Addison.”
Pretty girl names … or are they basic?
Is he trying to flatter or insult me?
I draw in a hard breath as I climb out of the water and quickly wrap my body in the soft warmth.
He tosses back another mouthful of beer, this one more generous than its predecessor.
“You’re not going to give them any name.” I keep my tone sweet as I tug my sundress off the chair, and then I turn my back to him and pull it over my damp body.
“What makes you so sure of that?” His words are subtly slurred. I imagine this isn’t his first beer of the night.
I face him once more, hardening my confidence. “Because if you’re who I think you are, you’re not twenty-one. You’re not going to be calling the cops with liquor on your breath.”
His head cocks to one side, as if he’s studying me from a new angle. “If I’m who you think I am, then you should know … my family pretty much owns the cops. Sorry, Sugar Tits, but I’ve got nothing to be scared of in this scenario. You, on the other hand …”
Either he’s trying to get a rise out of me or he truly is as big of an asshole as they say …
I may be known to keep sweet, but I’m not going to stand here and let someone objectify me because I made one bad decision.
“Sugar tits? I guess it’s true what they say—money can’t buy you class.”
He laughs, unfazed, as if my insult merely ricocheted off his steely exterior.
“So what should I call you then?” His penetrating stare falls to my chest before skimming back to my eyes.