Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
She’ll slow.
She doesn’t.
She’s a fucking Meadows.
I race up the steep, concrete stairs just as Winona’s foot catches on the girl’s ankle. She falls forward. Face-first towards the hard cement lip of the stair.
My muscles scream as I run faster. Harder, and I drop, pounding my knees against concrete to catch Winona under the arms, before her face smashes into cement.
“Oh my God!”
Shrieking.
“Is she okay?!”
People are on their feet. People are crowding the aisle. Crowding us.
I have Winona tucked against me. Her head digging against my abs in an awkward position. But I hesitate to move her right away. She takes shallow, shocked breaths. “Banks?”
“You didn’t hit your head,” I tell her.
“Is she okay?” people ask me repeatedly. “Don’t move her,” someone else says.
“She’s fine. Can you give her some space?” I jerk my head, signaling the good Samaritans to take a seat.
Winona breathes more uneven, realizing how close she came to eating the stairs. She could’ve broken her nose, knocked out her teeth, somersaulted until she was concussed, cracked her head wide open.
“Your legs alright? Think you can move?”
“I…” She shifts her head up. “Yeah—”
“Winona!” Ryke has reached his daughter. So has Daisy and their bodyguards. I feel the heat of Wylie, Greer, and Price, and despite me being Winona’s sister’s boyfriend—Price has the fucking nerve to whisper to me, “We have this, Banks.”
I’m glaring every which way. But I don’t leave.
I help Winona to her feet. And my knees sear and roar in pain. She’s fisting my shirt like I’m the railing.
“You could’ve killed her, you troll!” Kinney is yelling at the girl who tripped Winona. Lo and Lily are speaking fast to their daughter, and Vada is being talked into staying seated by her parents.
Audrey is pointing at the tripper and speaking to her mom. Ben is in a heated argument with his dad. And the only one who’s left unrestrained isn’t even famous.
“Feel good about that viral video?” Jesse Highland, the shaggy-haired surfer boy, has entered the stairs. Camera at his side, he shouts down to the tripper. “Delete it.”
She huffs, looking uncertain. “I don’t have to do anything you say.”
“Jesse,” another camera operator snaps. “Get back here. Now.”
He doesn’t move.
The camera operator whisper-sneers, “Do you want to lose your job?”
Winona watches as Jesse considers this. “It’s okay, Jesse.” She lets go of my shirt, and with quaking arms, she clasps her mom’s hand.
Jesse reluctantly backs away, and when I turn to the pool, my pulse skips.
Swimmers are already on their blocks. But they’re watching the stands. Watching us.
Sulli saw her sister free-fall and almost face-plant.
Hell, millions of TV viewers probably saw the drama, but I’m more concerned about Sulli’s focus. Her goals.
Goggles over her eyes, I know she’s staring at me.
And I tug my ear twice.
She intakes a big breath.
We came up with signals during the Olympics—the three of us—knowing there’d be moments where we couldn’t talk.
In fucking hindsight, we should’ve made up a signal for everything’s okay.
But I default to the ear-tug.
Which simply means, I love you.
Her earlobe peeks from her swim cap. And she does a quick tug.
Now I breathe stronger, and with sore knees, I try not to limp as I resume my course to the pool. To Akara. He’s forcing himself not to shift a muscle and come to my fuckin’ rescue. I almost smile. Arms crossed, he’s gripping the hell out of his biceps.
Officials instruct ten swimmers to recommence the heat. They assume the starting position. Arms arched over the knees and about to grasp the front edge of the platform.
“Take your mark,” the starter commands, causing the stadium to fall hushed.
I reach the last few rows.
Expecting a beep next.
Instead, there’s a splash.
Everyone gasps.
My heart lurches to my throat at the sight of a false start.
17
AKARA KITSUWON
The false start is brutal, and I’m wincing.
I should pad-lock any reactions until Sulli’s heat is over. Be totally cool and emotionless like Price is hoping the head of Kitsuwon Securities will be. Like press isn’t expecting me to be. They’re waiting to spin a camera on my face so they can tether together a dramatic storyline between me and Banks and Sulli.
Before, I might’ve glared and thought, I’m giving you nothing to work with. Go find another camera whore.
Now—now, I don’t care. Make me a fudging camera whore. Make me whatever you want—because all that really matters is the girl in the pool, the guy on his way to me, and my men.
Everyone else can suck a sour pickle.
Anna Laurent, the eighteen-year-old French swimmer who dove into the water before the beep, starts bawling. Hands to her face, she treads water, shaking and crying like her life has ended. I wince more.
That could’ve been Sulli.
Thank fudge it wasn’t.
We’re all seriously pushing our luck today. Winona was a single second from slamming face-first into concrete stairs. I’m still on edge from seeing her go down into Banks, and I bet Sulli isn’t one-hundred percent ready to compete after watching her sister fall.