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)
He looked at her for a long moment, a smirk on his arrogant, handsome face, before he shook his head and sat diagonally across—and a level up—from her.
No, he didn’t sit. He sprawled. Spreading himself out, arms stretched across the top of the bench, thighs apart, with the towel tucked between them. Every muscle bulging and gleaming and displayed to perfection.
It was annoying how he could look so goddamned flawless without even trying.
Iris folded her arms across her chest and purposely looked away from him, even though he’d quite intentionally placed himself right in her line of sight, perhaps out of some pathological need to be stared at.
“I did enjoy your zombie apocalypse short story,” he said a moment later, succeeding in dragging her eyes back up to him in horror.
“You read that? How? Where?”
“Found it on a random little website unimaginatively called The Write Stuff.”
She barely concealed a grimace at that information. The now-defunct site had been operated by her ex-boyfriend Claude. He’d been her first serious boyfriend and they’d met during their first year of uni. He’d loved that dumb story and had tried to convince her to turn it into a weekly serial for his website.
“It was a unique take. Decently written, if a tad overwrought in places. It would actually make a good movie if it were properly fleshed out and you spent more time on character development and less on the gory specifics. You’re a bloodthirsty little thing, aren’t you? Have you checked if it’s even medically possible to suck someone’s brains out through their eye sockets?”
“Surely you could? Your optic nerve connects to the brain, doesn’t it?”
“So, the optic nerve would act as some kind of siphon?” he looked thoughtful as he considered that graphic and absurd thought.
What even was this conversation?
“I really thought that website no longer existed.”
“Why are you so consistently appalled at the thought of having any of your work available online? It’s a pretty bizarre reaction for someone hoping to make her mark in entertainment journalism. You can’t be shy about having your work out there for the world to see. And praise. And rip to shreds.”
He made a fair point.
Only…
“Only none of what you found actually showcases my capabilities,” she said.
“I beg to differ. The poetry was shit, I’ll give you that. But that zombie thing… confining the action to a space colony? The claustrophobic intensity? Brilliant. I wanted more. You should have serialized it.”
“My boyfriend said the same thing,” she admitted, not sure if he was mocking her or not.
“Boyfriend?”
Wow, Iris stared in bemusement as he leaned forward, every single muscle in his body tensing. She really wanted to touch him, stroke her hands and fingers over those hard slabs of flesh, gleaming with moisture from the pool and now from the steam. Would his skin feel as velvety smooth as it looked? Everything about him was so damned tempting, and Iris was shocked by how very much she wanted to stroke, and pet, and caress…
“What boyfriend?” His words barely penetrated the lustful haze which held Iris enthralled.
“What?” she asked, feeling sluggish, her body and brain unfamiliar to her.
“Tell me about the boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?”
“The one who said you should serialize your story.”
“Claude? He’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore, at least. Not for a long time.”
“Do you have one?”
“One what?” This conversation was bizarre and Iris was having a really hard time following it.
“A boyfriend,” he repeated with strained patience.
“No.” Her brain cleared enough for her to add, “Why do you ask?”
His shoulders shifted, and the play of muscles across that broad expanse instantly distracted her.
“Just curious. Wondering what kind of boyfriend would let you roam around in the wilderness by yourself while you tracked down an international sex symbol with the intention of spending weeks alone with him.”
“Did you just refer to yourself as an international sex symbol?”
“Merely repeating what others have said.”
“Are you flattered by the label?”
His face closed up and his lips tightened.
“This isn’t an interview.”
Iris clamped her mouth shut and diverted her eyes once again.
“Right.”
“How’s your back?” he asked after a moment. Then, when she continued to mutinously stare at the condensation beaded on the glass door, “Don’t be childish now, Hughes, look at me and answer the question.”
“It’s fine,” she said, still not looking at him. He made a quiet sound of frustration.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
“Why do you so desperately need to be looked at?” she countered, angling her jaw upwards. “Do you miss having an audience?”
The silence seethed and—curious though she was to see his reaction—Iris maintained her stubborn focus on the door.
“I don’t need an audience.”
“Of course, you do. It’s why you do what you do. You enjoy having the adulation of the masses, don’t you?”
“Is that your best guess, Hughes? Some cheap, predictable psychobabble about what you think makes me tick? You know fuck all about me. You’ve seen me in a few movies, read or watched some interviews, and believe you know everything about me? You’re a fucking child if you think everything you’ve seen and heard about me is true.”