Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“That’s not what he did.” When she glares at me while folding her arms over her chest, I backtrack on my fabricated statement. “Yes. Then he left.”
“Because he…” Her words are delivered slowly as she struggles to sort through my brief yet confusing exchanges with Maksim. After a beat, the confusion clouding her eyes clears before they open wide. “He doesn’t think you’re married, does he?”
“No. But even if he did, would that stop him?”
Zoya shrugs. “Maybe he’s married to some bigshot lady boss, and she’d force him to kill anyone he cheats with. He could be protecting you.” When I glare at her, she snorts in my face. “What? His suits scream mafia, and it is something I’d do if I were the Godmother of the Bratva.”
I wish she were lying. Zoya has a mile-long jealousy streak and enough boxing hours under her belt to make any cheating spouse regret their stupidity.
“You’d be a terrible mafia boss. You would recruit anyone in a suit.” She laughs but doesn’t deny my claim. “Even Mr. Alcadoz.”
That switches the laugh lines on her face to sprouts of annoyance. “My theories about his extracurricular activities haven’t been discredited.”
“He works in the morgue at our university.”
Zoya gives me a look as if to say, Exactly! “Where do you think he gets all the cadavers from?”
I try to hold back my laughter. I bite on the inside of my cheek and pinch my thigh, but the instant she stares at me like she is expecting me to take her theory seriously, my resolve breaks.
I laugh like a hyena, and Zoya joins me.
“Oh my god,” she breathes out several long minutes later. “I haven’t laughed like that in forever.”
“Same,” I admit, pouting. “My life sucks.”
If she glares any harder, she will pop a vein in her neck.
“I’m not looking for sympathy, Z. I just—”
“Seem to have forgotten you’ve got a hot hunk of a man losing his ever-loving mind over you.” She stands like she can’t continue without giving her lungs room to expand. “You’re a doctor… a fucking good one, and you look like that.” She thrusts her hand at me. “So don’t give me the my life sucks line. Your life is awesome. You’re fucking awesome. We just need to find a way for Mr. Grumpy Pants to pull his finger out of his ass before one of the many other men who’d donate their left nut to have you in their life snatches you up.”
“I don’t want to force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do.”
Zoya’s glare is hot enough to melt ice. “You like him.”
“Yeah. And?”
“And?” She wiggles her ear like something is affecting her hearing before repeating, “And?”
When I nod, she pffts me before telling me to get up.
“Where are we going?”
She ignores me, still focusing on the “and?” part of my reply.
“And?” She shifts her eyes to her baby sister. “Can you believe this girl? And?”
Aleena giggles like she’s more clued in to Zoya’s quirks than I am before joining us in the main room of the suite.
Over an hour later, while wobbling in sky-high stilettos, I drift my eyes to Zoya. “This is ridiculous. Who goes swimming in heels?”
Zoya finishes applying a gloss to her fire-engine-red lips before twisting her torso to face me. “Don’t act like you were going to swim even if we were going to the pool.”
Her reply stumps me.
If we’re not going to the pool, why am I wearing a super skimpy bikini I plan to hide with an oversized T-shirt?
When I ask Zoya that, my answer comes from her baby sister, who is entering our room wearing a gorgeous crisscross one-piece swimsuit that is far more risqué than it sounds. Inches upon inches of Aleena’s skin is on display, and she looks amazing. “Because that’s what people wear at a bikini competition.”
My eyes bulge as my throat becomes scratchy. “This is your grand plan? A bikini competition?” When Zoya nods, I shake my head. “Nope. Nuh-uh. I’m out.” Stuff a tee that could become see-through with the slightest splash. I need a coverup my grandmother would approve of. “I’m a doctor. I don’t participate in bikini competitions.”
My hand freezes halfway into my carry-on when Aleena says, “The prize money is twenty big ones.”
“Twenty thousand US dollars?” I clarify, caught off guard by a Galdean before.
Zoya is very much one of those people who thinks “twenty bucks is twenty bucks.” I guess that’s why I shouldn’t have been shocked when she admitted she works at Le Rogue.
When Zoya and Aleena nod in sync, my throat works through a stern swallow.
“Who the hell puts up a twenty-thousand-dollar pot for a bikini competition?”
My pulse doesn’t know which area in my body to thud first when Zoya tosses a pamphlet for today’s activities onto my rumpled luggage. “A real estate mogul who wants his guests to use the outdoor facilities of his fancy-schmancy new hotel even while it’s cold enough for them to freeze their tits off.” She shrugs like the rest of her reply isn’t as important as the former. “And it’s for charity. Even Gigi would get her nips out for charity.”