Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“There’s a mere five-year age gap between us so you don’t have to make yourself sound like Father Time in comparison to me,” she told him with a sympathetic little moue. “Cut yourself some slack, you’re only a little past your sell-by date.”
“I’m in my fucking prime, you little witch. I’m not so shallow and vain that I’ll be stricken with despair and doubt by the mere inference that I’m old. Back to my point, why don’t you have more of an online presence?”
“Because I don’t have time to sit around maintaining social media accounts. I work. I help my family, I…” she stopped. Nope. No! She was here to interview him, not vice versa. He didn’t need to know about her life.
But there was one thing she needed to correct.
“My dad,” she began, and watched his magnificent shoulders stiffen and his face go still. He looked like he couldn’t quite believe that she’d dared bring up her father again. “The one allergic to animal dander? His name is Jason Hughes. He’s my stepfather, and he’s been my dad since I was seven years old. He raised me, nurtured me, loved me, and is the only father I’ve ever really known. I’m shocked your extensive research into my life didn’t reveal that most basic fact about me. Jason Hughes is my dad while Stanford Carter is the man who blew into and out of my life once or twice a year for my first thirteen years. But I got my talent and love of writing from him and I owe it to myself, and to him, to explore that talent. This interview with you was my opportunity to do that. To honor my biological father in some way and make my real dad proud of me.”
He stared at her, eyes narrowed, his straight, white teeth chewing at his bottom lip as he appeared to consider her words. He didn’t say anything for a long time before his shoulders shifted. The play of muscles across that broad, tanned expanse captivated Iris and stole her breath away.
“Seems to me that the kind of man you describe your stepdad to be would already be proud of you, regardless of your achievements. While the type of man I know your biological father to have been wouldn’t give an actual fuck about your achievements because he’d likely only ever seen you as an extension of himself. Emulating a fucker like that should be very low down on your list of priorities.”
She hated that his words were a reflection of everything she’d believed herself, but never dared to acknowledge. Stanford Carter had showed little to no interest in her academic achievements, had never read any of her school essays, or poems, or stories. He’d glanced at them whenever she’d proudly handed them to him and patted her on the head, and said things like, “Like father, like daughter” or “That’s my girl” or “Of course you got an A, you’re a chip off the old block.”
Her every achievement had been an opportunity for him to talk about himself. She’d known it, she’d seen it, but until now, until this awful man had laid that obvious truth bare with just a few cruel words, Iris had hoarded all of those non-compliments close and held them up as proof that her father had loved her and had been proud of her.
She dropped her gaze to the water, refusing to let him see how much the obvious truth had devastated her. She didn’t say a word for a few long minutes, and he allowed the silence to simmer between them.
Chapter Seven
“Come on,” Trystan said a while later. “We’re turning into prunes. Some time in the sauna, stretches, and you’ll feel much better.”
“I already feel better, thank you,” she said, the words stilted and overly polite. “The sauna might not be necessary.”
His brow pleated and he shook his head.
“No, you’ll likely stiffen up again once your muscles cool down. Trust me on this, I’ve had to deal with this type of pain enough times while bulking up for roles.”
Iris hesitated for a few seconds before nodding and pushing to her feet. He helped her out of the pool and led her to the sauna, handing her a thick white towel at the entrance.
“You should strip out of the wet bikini,” he said, his eyes flicking down over her body as he spoke. “Wrap yourself in this.”
“But I’ll be naked.” She sounded like an outraged old maid, but she couldn’t help herself.
His lips twitched with what looked suspiciously like humor and he lifted his closed fist to his mouth and coughed—laughed?—before speaking. “Not naked. You’ll be wearing the towel.”
“Are you coming in as well?”
“I am.”
“But…” Her protest petered out beneath the weight of his penetrative stare.
“I assure you, you’ll be perfectly safe with me, Miss Hughes.”