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)
She affected an air of injured dignity as she trotted past Iris and Trystan with her head held high.
Trystan shut the door as soon as the dog was inside.
“You could have let her keep it for a while,” Iris said, and Trystan snorted.
“Don’t be fooled by those puppy-dog eyes. She couldn’t give a fuck about the stick. If I allowed her to do that every time we came back from a walk, we’d have a fair to middling pile of discarded wet wood littered about the house. She loses interest in the damned things less than a minute after she gets her way. That’s a lesson I learned the hard way.”
Iris giggled and cast a fond glance at the dog who had settled into her basket and was contentedly licking herself.
Her smile faded and she idly traced her fingers along the edge of the faintly blue-veined waterfall white marble countertop.
“Thank you for allowing me to join you on your walk. I enjoyed it.”
He nodded but said nothing, keeping his gaze fixed on her face. It was unnerving how often he just stared at her like she was some weird, exotic species of bug he’d picked up in the forest and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of.
“I suppose I should be getting back to my room now,” she offered, reluctance weighing down each word. After the lovely, carefree afternoon surrounded by so much beauty and open space the thought of returning to a confined area choked her up. But maybe he’d change his mind about locking her in this time. Maybe he’d recognize how cruel it was to keep her trapped.
“Yes.” He didn’t move.
“Okay,” she said, also not moving.
Even though the island served as a barrier between them he still felt uncomfortably close, likely because of that probing stare, and Iris shifted her weight from foot to foot.
“You should change into some dry clothes,” he said.
“That’s nothing new,” Iris said, as she plucked at her damp jacket. “Does it ever stop raining here?”
“Apparently it’s been wetter than usual this year,” he said, and Iris wondered at the inane conversation. “I’ve been to the Western Cape a few times before, but always in summer and usually for work. Never during winter. I was forewarned by Miles and Sam to prepare for some pretty extreme cold and rain, but this is even worse than I’d expected.”
“Sam?” Iris shouldn’t have asked—she knew she shouldn’t have. Since Trystan wasn’t likely to intentionally reveal any new information to her if he could help it. It had obviously been an unconscious slip of the tongue.
And that was confirmed when he once again went stone-faced and tensed.
“I’m sorry. None of my business,” she backtracked hastily.
“I’m…” He paused, seeming to search for the right words. “Ever since the accident—Trish’s death—every interaction with the press has been negative and intrusive. I don’t want to talk to journalists. Not about her, or the accident, or anything really. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And every time I talk to you I can’t lose sight of the fact that you’re one of them.”
“But—” Her brain was racing as she mulled over his unexpectedly candid confession. His eyes had darkened, his expression was moody, body language closed off. “You’ll have to deal with them eventually. Press junkets for movies, promotional interviews and the like. You can’t avoid the press forever. Not in your line of work.”
“Then maybe it’s time I find a new line of work.” The words were spoken so quietly that Iris wasn’t certain she’d heard him correctly. But one look into those roiling eyes told her she hadn’t been mistaken and she gasped in shock.
“You can’t be serious?” Why would he say something like this to her? Was it some kind of trick? Or test? He had to know that this was the kind of scoop that any journalist worth their salt would kill to have.
“As a heart attack.”
Forgetting for a moment what this information could do for her career, Iris stared at him for a long, long moment and shook her head.
“That would be a shame, Trystan,” she said. “You’re extremely talented.”
“You going to write about this?”
“As you have reminded me time and time again, you haven’t consented to an interview with me,” she reminded him. “Mr. Quinn’s promises mean nothing in light of that fact.”
“There are many who wouldn’t let that stop them.”
“I like to consider myself a woman of integrity. We were having a conversation, private and off the record.”
He nodded again, a curt jerk of his jaw. Something sparked in his eyes—satisfaction? triumph?—Iris wasn’t sure what. And once again she had the distinct feeling that she was being tested.
And she didn’t like it. Was he toying with her? Of course he was. The naive, inexperienced wannabe journalist who was ridiculously eager to please the big movie star whom she had once borderline hero-worshipped.