Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Huh. Who knew that watching a man come up with improvements to software could be such a turn-on?
“My brother works with AI,” I tell him. “Maybe I could put you in touch?”
Assuming we leave this swamp alive.
Ashton’s eyes light up. “That would be amazing, thanks.”
“It’s no big deal.” Cameron will be happy to get more business for his company.
“So, what about you?” Ashton asks. “Do you have a backup career?”
“No.” But if I were crazy enough to tell him about my secret source of income, this would be a great time. “It’s fashion or nothing.”
He nods. “That’s being focused. It should only help.”
“I’m not sure I’m focused enough,” I say. “Tierre has got me so busy at work that I haven’t had the time to sit down and come up with my own ideas.”
Ashton sweeps a hand over the dingy room. “Take advantage of the enforced downtime.”
“I already have,” I admit, and then tell him about my VersaWear idea.
“That sounds great,” he says. “I have countless clients who’d find such a thing useful. In fact, when it’s finished, I’d be glad to plug VersaWear for you.”
Seriously, how many of those damned fireflies did I swallow?
“That’s too generous,” I say. “I’m not sure I can accept.”
He waves that off. “Let’s make a deal. When you’re done, let me check it out. If it’s as good as it sounds, it would actually help my business to promote it.”
“It would?” Sounds too good to be true.
“Whenever I make my clients happy, especially the celebs, it obviously helps my business.”
“I guess… Well, if I make my VersaWear design a reality, you’ll be the first person I ping.” After I unblock his number, that is.
“Perfect.” He nods toward the window. “Now, how about we celebrate our pact by watching the sunrise together?”
“Sure.” Though it sounds a bit too romantic for my sanity.
As we leave the cabin and head toward the water, the sun just starts to peek over the horizon.
“From where should we watch it?” I ask.
“The boat has seats,” he says. “Let’s watch from there, and once everything is sufficiently illuminated, we can look for keys.”
“That works.” I have no idea why I do this, but I grab his hand—and am rewarded with the predictable sensual zings that always accompany his touch.
Squeezing my hand tenderly, he walks me to the boat, where we take our seats side by side, our knees touching.
Trying to ignore the impact of his nearness, I watch the majestic way the sun paints the sky in pink, orange, and gold hues. “This reminds me of some paintings we studied in my Art and Design History course.”
“Oh, yeah? Which ones?”
He likes art too? “‘Impression, Sunrise’ by Monet. But also ‘Forest Sunrise’ by Albert Bierstadt.”
He nods thoughtfully. “I’ve only seen the Monet, and you’re spot on. I’ll need to check out the other one when we get back to civilization.”
I don’t counter with “if we get back to civilization” because the moment is too pleasant to spoil with such thoughts, no matter how pragmatic. I’m not surprised he’s familiar with that painting. A family like the Vancrofts probably travel regularly to Paris, so he could’ve seen the original in the Marmottan Monet Museum.
As the sunrise continues, we take turns noticing details that create the ethereal, and way-too-romantic, atmosphere—like the mist that hovers softly over the swamp and the herons walking bravely up to a gator, who in turn looks like he’s also enjoying the sunrise.
Once the sun is finally up, Ashton and I turn toward each other at the same exact time, and our lips come together as if of their own accord.
This kiss is sweet and tender, and it does to my lips what the sunrise has done for my eyes.
When things start to heat up, I force myself to pull away.
“We should look for those keys,” I say, more than a little breathlessly.
“Ah. Right.” He stands up. “Let’s.”
We scour the boat and then the surrounding area, literally leaving no stone unturned.
Sadly, all we have to show for our troubles is a rusty hammer that Ashton finds in the small console storage space.
He, however, looks extremely pleased with his find.
“Something to bash Bubba over the head with?” I ask, only half-jokingly.
“No,” he says. “I was thinking this will make it easier to crush nuts if I want to make a porridge, and—though I’m not sure it will work—smash peanuts into peanut butter.”
I sigh. “I see you’re now as convinced as I am that we’re stuck here for a while.”
“Just want to be prepared. And to that end…” He motions toward something on the ground. “This place is littered with apple snails—and we have the water to boil them, if you’re interested.”
I stare at him, but he’s clearly serious. “No. Not desperate enough for that yet.”
He scoffs. “Why? You’ve never had escargot?”
I scoff right back. “I’m not grossed out by snails, if that’s what you’re talking about.” Though frogs, whose legs are another French delicacy, are a different story. “I gladly eat escargot, and I use snail mucin on my face.”