Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
I thought he might kiss me as we frolicked in the ocean. And despite all my protestations, I thought I might let him.
We dragged ourselves from the water, wrinkled and breathless, and I forced myself not to reach for my sarong. No need to channel Smurfette. Plus, I decided to make the effort to be braver. I definitely feel braver after absorbing his praise. Fin swiped up the pink fedora and stuck it on my wet head, announcing, “You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.”
I didn’t like to point out that the hat was mine, which would surely mean . . .
No need to mention that.
When he suggested a walk along the beach, we moved toward the volcanic outcrop. I found myself gasping, and for the briefest moment, I forgot I wasn’t on my actual honeymoon. There, just beyond the dark rocks, in an Instagram-worthy setting, was a white-muslin-draped pergola. A uniformed server waited to seat us with a warm deference and champagne cooling in a silver bucket.
Dinner on the beach, watching the sunset. How dreamily romantic, right?
“I wonder who did the rose petals,” I say, now glancing down at the sand. Was this preordered for Evie and Oliver? Or did Fin do this for me? I mean, for our ruse.
“Looks a little like a pentagram,” Fin replies at the precise moment I bring my champagne glass to my lips.
I cough-swallow a mouthful of bubbles. Pressing my fingers to my chest, I try not to die due to a lack of air and an excess of bubbles as they burn my throat. Fin frowns and makes to move, aborting the movement when I give my head a tiny shake.
“I’m okay. But, yuck! A little of that came out of my nose.” I glance down at the petals again. “I was wondering what the pattern reminded me of.”
The petals are red and laid out in swirls, not quite a geometric pattern, but the addition of strategically placed candles does give it a let’s summon a demon for shits and giggles effect.
We’re served dinner as though dining in a Michelin-starred restaurant in the middle of London, not sitting in our damp swimwear, hair wild with seawater and salt. Mine, anyway. The food is amazing—grilled lobster with a side of melted garlic butter. French beans and dark rye bread, and whoever said you don’t make friends with salad never had one that tasted like spring rolls in a bowl. I need the recipe, because that salad and I are destined to be besties.
“Try this.” Fin holds out a delicate cake fork with a morsel of chocolate torte balanced on the tines. The waiter offered us both a trio of miniature desserts, though I declined mine. The bread—I ate so much of it.
“Why do you keep trying to put things in my mouth? First it was the butter,” I add quickly, flustered by his incendiary expression. I couldn’t resist as he offered me the morsel on oven-warmed bread. My thighs can attest I’m a sucker for fresh bread.
“Was I wrong about the butter?” he asks, lowering the fork a touch.
“It was the best butter I’ve ever tasted. So salty, rich, and creamy.”
“Stop that,” he says in a low, warning tone.
I give my lashes an innocent flutter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” He gives his head a slow, disparaging shake.
“Fine.” I drop my gaze to the fork before lifting my eyes. “Just this one time I’ll let you put it in my mouth.”
Fin barks out the kind of laugh that feels like a glug of good whisky in my chest. He lifts the fork again, and like a good baby bird, I open.
“Oh, my days,” I practically moan—and not to tease him either! The mouthful is light, a fluffy—a chocolatey—heaven.
“Good, right?”
“Mmm,” I agree, pressing my fingers to my lips.
“Eating is one of life’s great pleasures. After sex, of course.”
I roll my eyes despite loving the way he’s watching me. Like he’s the one enjoying dessert.
“So eat the damn torte,” he says, pushing his dainty dessert platter to the center of the table. “Then try the citrus tart.”
“But I’m full!”
“Then why were you eyeing my plate like it owed you money?”
“I can look. It doesn’t mean I have to taste.”
“Yeah. I feel that,” he says in that low tone again. “Suffer it anyway.”
I frown a frown that’s in total opposition to the sensations rioting through me. Once more, I’m sure my nipples could put an eye out. I hunch forward in my seat.
“Come on. Just a little more,” he cajoles as he forks the torte. “You can take it. For me.”
“When you put it that way, how can I resist?”
“Beats me,” he murmurs, leaning closer.
“Oh, my God.” I press my fingers to my lips as I slide the fluffy sweetness around in my mouth. “That is just . . .”