Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 167759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 839(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 839(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
‘I’m honoured. As you must be on Sundays.’
‘Ha. He was a shit centre forward when he played professionally,’ Rhett grumbles, ‘he’s only gotten worse since.’
‘That must be why my team wiped the floor with yours last week.’
‘Yeah, well, I couldn’t see for the fog of the female spectators’ sighs.’ With a sly smile, Rhett turns to me. ‘He still draws a crowd. He broke more hearts than he kicked footballs in the last year of his career.’
‘You’re just jealous because my legs look better in shorts. What exactly does this man do for you, Remy?’ He says men like you might carbuncle.
‘Everett is the head of my security team, or so they tell me.’
‘You’re expecting trouble?’ Gunnar asks, one dark eyebrow raised like a question mark.
‘Nah. He only keeps me around to make his face look prettier. Sometimes I get to beat off the ladies with a big stick.’ As he says this, his gaze is scanning the crowd, the results of my recent accident still making him paranoid. ‘You know how it is with you good-looking, rich types.’
‘You’ll have to excuse him. He doesn’t get out much. He’s not what you’d call socialised.’
‘You mean, give him a chance, and he’ll start humping my leg?’ Before either of us can answer, his name is called from the other side of the room, the voice high-pitched and excitable. ‘I don’t suppose you want to come and beat some off for me,’ he murmurs, watching the crowd of people part like the Red Sea.
‘Nah, you’re not my type,’ Everett answers with a grin as a diminutive brunette comes barrelling towards us, waving manically to get Gunnar’s attention.
‘Monsieur Gunner,’ she calls. ‘Bonsoir! Hello, it is I! Princess Mariella!’
‘A princess,’ Rhett scoffs. ‘You’re moving up in the world.’
‘Piss off,’ he retorts as he turns. ‘She probably just wants to talk about the donation she’s making.’
I doubt it, though I keep the thoughts to myself. These European minor royals usually think charity begins at home and often struggle to keep the heirloom Bentley on the road.
‘I reckon she’s looking for a deposit from you. A personal kind of deposit, if you know what I mean.’ Everett smirks as the matronly princess appears in front of the retired athlete, staring up at his face with wide-eyed expectance.
‘We shall leave you to it,’ I murmur, drawing away.
And this is what I’ve exchanged a night with Rose for.
I must be crazy.
21
Rose
‘Mon Dieu!’ my dinner date announces, sliding aviator sunglasses to the top of his head. ‘The sun is so bright today that it is burning my rectums!’
‘Charlie, what the hell?’ I splutter through the mouthful of water I’ve just ingested, though manage not to expel it over the little wooden bistro table.
‘What? Did I not say this correct?’ He frowns, pulling out the chair opposite but not yet seating himself. ‘It is still bright outside. This is why I have my sunglasses.’ He places them on the tabletop between us, running his hand down the front of his tightly fit shirt. The rest of his outfit is very him; baby blue chinos that look like they’ve been sprayed rather than pulled on, a skinny navy leather belt to draw the attention to his trim waist, and matching Gucci penny loafers.
‘What do you think?’ he says, doing a little twirl.
‘Très chic. I also think if your rectum is burning, you’re wearing your sunglasses in the wrong place.’
His expression seems to turn inward as he lowers himself into his chair. After considering his reflection in the smoke grey lenses. ‘Les yeux. The eyes,’ he begins to muse aloud. ‘Les rétines. Retinas. Le rectum . . . Oh!’ He titters. ‘I think that would be one way to bleach l’anus.’
‘No. No, I don’t think it would be.’ Covering my hand with my mouth, I try to keep from giggling myself.
‘Maybe with a little lemon juice,’ he adds with a one-shouldered shrug.
‘Limon jooz?’
‘Bah! You can’t make fun of my accent.’
‘I can try.’
‘Not the way you butcher la langue française.’
‘That’s fightin’ talk!’
‘Bon. Then it shall be handbags at dawn!’ He tightens his fingers on the strap of his invisible purse, one eyebrow incitingly raised.
The waiter arrives, and Charles suggests we order a bottle of wine, and I agree while also hoping he orders a cheap one this time because funds are getting low. I don’t get paid until next week, and I’m currently living on bread and cheese when I’m not with Remy. Bread and cheese might sound kind of fancy, especially considering where I’m living. It’s not because I’m not eating the fancy stuff, but the carrot-orange processed yuck. My diet is a little more balanced thanks to the contents of the fruit bowl kept on the concierge reception desk, which I think is mostly for show, but provides at least one of my 5 A Day, the number increased by a liberal consumption of grapes. In liquid form.