Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
He walks me to the street and opens the back door of the Uber for me. We forgot to kiss goodbye at the door, which means anything we do here is under the careful supervision of the woman in the driver’s seat.
I turn to him and aim my focus somewhere near his heart.
“When do you leave?” he asks, and I’m surprised to find that his tone is completely neutral, not hopeful or angry, just…curious.
I shake my head and glance down his street. “I’m not sure. Soon.”
I can’t give him any more details than that. I can’t tell him that as of this moment, I can’t imagine leaving at all, much less in a few days. I can’t tell him I’ve already agreed to take the job. Diego and Nicolás are counting on me, and if I pass up the opportunity, who knows when the agency will find another position for me. It’s not something I can dismiss lightly. I didn’t bust my butt through college to spend the rest of my 20s peddling Mai Tais around the pool at Twin Oaks.
I think we both know that, and I think that’s why he doesn’t ask me to stay. He dips down and presses a kiss to my cheek. I inhale as long as I can, holding his scent with me even after the driver pulls away from his curb.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Diego and Nicolás had me sign and fax over a contract when I agreed to take the position, and though it’s non-binding, it feels like it is. I refuse to entertain the idea of staying behind. I’ve agreed to work for them, and I won’t give up the opportunity. The pay is insane, Barcelona is beautiful, and most importantly, I will never have to don this Twin Oaks uniform ever again. Every day brings me closer to freedom, and every day the polo shirt feels slightly more constricting than the day before, almost like it knows I’m trying to leave. I tug at the collar and try to adjust my skirt so it covers up a few more inches of my thighs.
Brian is training my replacement in the cabana, some overeager UT student. In the five minutes I was around her, she kept going on and on about how Matthew McConaughey is a member here. Then she looked me dead in the eye and asked if I’d ever seen him. Once with Andy Roddick and Brooklyn Decker, I tell her, and yes, they’re all beautiful in real life.
I think Brian could tell she was annoying me because he sent me back into the main clubhouse to roll silverware. They have the assembly line set up in the employee break room, where a small flat-screen plays daytime soaps. I tune it out and focus on the forks and knives in front of me. Maybe if I roll them fast enough, Brian will let me go early.
“Knock knock,” Ellie says, tapping her knuckles on the doorframe.
I glance up but don’t stop rolling. “What’s up? I thought you were on hostess duty.”
“I am,” she says before nodding her head behind her and flashing me one of her trademark don’t hate me smiles. They’re usually reserved for when she admits she lost a piece of borrowed clothing. I mentally prepare myself to hear her tell me she ruined my favorite pair of Madewell jeans, and then James steps into the doorway behind her. My heart soars and my stomach tightens into a ball of anxiety. I don’t know what he’s doing here; we haven’t talked since I left his house the other night. I’ve actually appreciated the fact that we haven’t run into each other at the club, and it takes me a second to remember that he shouldn’t be back here. This area is employees only.
Ellie turns and pats James’ shoulder.
“Pay up, moneybags.”
He casts an amused glance down at her as he pulls his wallet out and produces a crisp hundred-dollar bill. She pops it out of his hand with her thumb and forefinger and walks away, snapping it a few times for emphasis.
“‘’Preciate ya!”
I can’t help but smile. “Did you just bribe my sister?”
He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The employee break room is small to begin with, but with him looming there, surveying the space, it becomes stifling. “I offered a twenty, but she’s a good negotiator. I might hire her.”
I shake my head, turning back to my silverware. “Good to know the value of a conversation with me. My normal rate is $600 an hour, so you have 10 minutes.” I snort.
“Are you busy?” he asks, no hint of amusement in his tone. “Can you talk?”
Talk.
The most terrible word in the English language.
I wave my hand across the mess of silverware spread out on the table before me. “As you can see, I have my hands full.”