Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Iris had not expected him to join her, but he sank into the water with his own version of a blissed-out sigh—a harsh, broken groan—and sat down across from her. He was far enough away for them to not even accidentally brush against each other, but it still felt too close. And too intimate. Way, way, way too intimate.
She studied him carefully, not sure what—if anything—to say. His head was tilted back and his eyes were shut, and she was happy to have a few moments of relative privacy to have a minor freak-out about her current bizarre reality.
She was in a hot tub with TRYSTAN ABBOTT! How was this her life right now?
All too soon, he lifted his head and opened his eyes, pinning her to the spot with his interrogative gaze. He’d caught her staring, but didn’t seem to think anything of it. And Iris recognized that this was a man who was probably used to being gawked at on a daily basis. She was just being like everyone else on the planet.
The only people who wouldn’t stare were those he worked with and those with whom he was intimately acquainted. Family, friends, familiars… Iris wasn’t even an acquaintance. She didn’t matter to him. And she never would.
“Are those aggressively pink splotches meant to be lips?” His question was confusing and unexpected, and she wasn’t sure what the hell he meant.
“What?”
“On your bikini?”
Why was he asking about her bikini? In fact, why was he thinking about it at all?
“They’re lipstick kisses.”
“Right.”
“They’re cute.”
“Right. Lipstick kisses all over your tits and ass. Cute. Got it.”
She gritted her teeth—she really had to stop doing that—and refrained from asking him what that was supposed to mean.
Because his voice had been dripping with… something. Disdain? Sarcasm? Mockery? Whatever it was, it hadn’t been anything positive.
“Thank you,” she said instead, surprising and confusing him, if his expression was anything to go by.
“For what?”
“This,” she said, idly waving her hand through the water. “It’s heavenly.”
He made a noncommittal grunting sound.
“So, I can’t ask you anything because you’d lose your shit and accuse me of spying or some other unreasonable thing… but, I mean, you could ask me something. A few questions to ease your mind about who I am.”
“I have absolutely no interest in finding out anything more than I already know about you.”
“Oh.”
She sank into wounded silence, while berating herself for allowing this man, who meant nothing to her, to once again hurt her dumb, sensitive feelings.
The awkward silence remained unbroken for a good few minutes before the man across from her sighed softly.
“Do you have a dog of your own at home to console you after your inevitable breakup with Luna?”
The unexpected question was silly and whimsical but Iris recognized—and appreciated—it for the attempted olive branch that it was.
“No. I’ve never had a dog. I’ve always wanted one but my dad is allergic to animal dander. So, no pets at all.”
“Your dad? Stanford Carter?”
“How do you know my father’s name?” she asked, stunned. They didn’t share a last name—obviously—and the only people who really knew of her familial relationship with the notorious Stanford Carter were her family, and Evan.
“One phone call to my security team, some half-assed Internet searches, and I knew everything I needed to know about you.”
“Everything except the fact that your manager arranged for me to be here.”
He ignored that. “Your father was a first-class bastard. He destroyed marriages, careers, lives without blinking. All for the almighty buck. And you wonder why the fuck I would never consent to an interview with you? Even if Quinny had for some fucked-up, brain fart of a reason arranged this, I would never have agreed to it. Not with your sleazy pedigree.”
“My father was a great man… he was a wonderful journalist”—TDH scoffed at the word—“who enriched lives and kept the masses informed.”
“He shoveled through shit to find the most sordid details about people’s lives and laid them bare for public consumption. A real prince. Is that why you don’t use his last name? Because you know nobody with any self-respect would ever agree to be interviewed by someone with such close ties to that bottom-feeding piece of filth?”
“I don’t have to sit here and listen to this unprovoked defamation of both my character, and my father’s,” Iris said, her voice vibrating with indignation and humiliation. In truth, she was more affronted by his assassination of her character than she was by anything he’d said about her biological father.
Stanford Carter hadn’t been a saint—he’d been ruthless in his pursuit of a story. To the exclusion of all else. He’d often neglected to show up for weekends, or visits, with Iris when he was on the trail of some scandalous story or the other. And Iris could understand why Trystan would feel that way about him. In fact, when Iris had seen those truly awful, invasive images of Trish Nesbitt and Trystan after their accident, it had struck her as something her father would have done. And that certainty had revolted her.