Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“We work together. The blond is Otto, and the guy with dark hair is Ham.”
“Ham.” I raise a brow.
“His real name is Hamilton. He fucking hates it.”
“I hate to say this, but I don’t think the nickname Ham is any better than Hamilton.” I watch him laugh, and my toes curl into the sand.
“I’ll let him know you said that.”
“Please don’t,” I whisper, and he grins.
“So, you’re American. Do you live in Europe, or just travel here for work?” he asks.
“I live in London. I moved there from Paris a little over a year ago after I fell in love.”
“With someone, or the city?”
“The city.” I stumble into him when a wave catches me off guard. His arms wrap around me, and I tip my head back to say thank you, but the moment our eyes lock, my heart goes haywire, and the words get trapped in the back of my throat.
Feeling his fingers smooth up my spine, I stop breathing and watch in apt anticipation as his face lowers toward mine. Just when I’m sure he might kiss me, and I might let him, water splashes on us, and laughter fills the air over the sound of the blood roaring through my veins.
Looking over my shoulder, I watch two boys probably around seven or eight swim off while glancing back at us, grinning and giggling.
I laugh and move out of Walker’s hold, hearing him chuckle. “You wanna get out?”
“Yeah.” I turn for the shore, and he sticks to my side until we’re both out of the water, and then just like before, he walks behind me up the beach. I look over my shoulder again, expecting his gaze to be on my ass, but it’s not. It’s scanning from side to side, like he’s looking for something. Going to my chair, I straighten my towel and lie down on my back, and he does the same.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, side by side with the sound of the ocean in the near distance and kids playing in the sand feet away. It’s oddly relaxing, even with my body still very aware of his presence. Rolling to my belly, I’m almost asleep when his voice breaks through the fog of my subconscious.
“Do you always vacation alone?”
Lifting my head, I rest my chin on top of my arms and look over at him. “Most of the time. All my family is back in the US, and my friends here are either married, have kids or don’t have the availability to get away when I do.”
Before I’ve even finished talking, his eyes move past me and narrow. Turning to see what he’s looking at, I notice a guy who is probably around my age standing under a tree with a drink in his hand, and his eyes are staring straight at my ass.
“Take a picture! It will last longer!” I call out, and the guy turns bright-red and walks off. “Jerk.”
“Babe, that’s about the tenth guy to come over just to stare at your ass. If we were in a different place, I’d have already gotten us kicked off this beach.”
“Oh great, you're one of those guys,” I mutter, tucking my face into the crook of my arm.
“What kind of guy is that?”
I lift my head to look at him. “The kind of man who thinks a woman should cover up so other men don’t check her out, like it’s her fault men are gross.”
“Nope, if that ass was mine, you’d have my bite mark on it, and you, me, and everyone else would no-doubt know who it belongs to. And if someone didn’t recognize that claim, then we’d have a problem.”
My core clenches as he holds my gaze captive. I should not be turned on by his statement. Actually, I should probably tell him that his statement is completely inappropriate. But all I can do is stare at him and wonder how exactly—as in logistics—he’d get his bite marks on my ass.
What the hell does that say about me?
Rolling to my back without a word, I rest my arm over my eyes and ignore his quiet laughter.
After about another thirty minutes of lying in the sun, I sit up to grab my bottle of water from my bag and gulp some down. When I look over at him, I notice he’s got a book open and resting on his abs as he watches me. I try to remember if I’ve ever seen a man read for pleasure, and I can’t think of a single time. No men I know read unless they have to before signing a document or putting together a piece of furniture.
“What are you reading?” He lifts the book so I can see the cover of a murder mystery I’ve passed by a million times at the airport.