Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
It’s better for all involved, I think as I stand as well.
I walk away from the beach because I feel like I've done my due diligence today. I've acted normal long enough.
Nash won't care that I'm gone. The only thing that man cares about is where he's going to spend his night, and more than likely from the level of attention he's got from the woman in the white bathing suit, it's going to end up exactly as he had planned.
I swing by the surf shop before heading to my SUV in the attached parking lot.
It's hot. I'm sweating. I'm fucking thirsty.
I never should have come today, but at least it kills a couple of hours before I go back to the house alone.
I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in coincidences.
Most all situations that seem like déjà vu are created.
They're generated by the people who are hoping to get the outcome that they're seeking. That’s always been my mindset. Someone is always controlling the narrative.
I give a passing glance to the two guys standing outside of the surf shop.
They aren't traffickers. They aren't the type of men that are here looking for trouble.
Despite the heat, they're both dressed in dark suits, completely out of place for a Texas beach.
They’re private security detail for someone they're tasked at protecting, and it becomes blatantly obvious exactly who they're here for.
When I see her again, she’s now wrapped in a coverup from her elbows all the way down to her knees, standing in front of the drink cooler, trying to make a selection as if it's a big decision.
I don't know who she is. I don't know if she's important. I don’t know if she's a B-list celebrity or if she's just some rich man's daughter. Hell, she could be some rich man's wife for all I know.
“Having a hard time deciding?” I ask as I step up beside her.
She doesn't even look my way, but I do notice the small, weak, fake smile on her lips. It seems rote, as if it's a habit, as if she has to smile when approached in public or there will be consequences.
I reach past her, pulling open the cooler door to grab a water, but I don’t step out of her way.
I don’t give her the common courtesy of distance as I turn around to face her.
A lot of men would probably chat or flirt as they hope for a first date, but at the end of the day, they're just taking steps to get lucky, to get laid, to not have to spend the night alone.
I've already established that I'm not a normal man.
She steps back when I step closer to her, her eyes raking down my chest as she assesses me, and I grin as she takes her time.
I know what she sees—blue eyes, blond hair, tan skin. Her eyes don’t linger on my eight-pack abs, nor on those muscles on the side leading down into my swimsuit that most women get lost in.
She doesn't care.
I don't know if this woman sees hot guys all the time.
But she seems indifferent.
And when her nose scrunches up, as if she smells something foul, as if she can't believe that someone like me would approach someone like her, it rankles. It annoys me.
It makes my mind go to places that my mind never should go.
“Excuse me,” she says, an air of aloofness in her tone
She steps to the side, pulls open the cooler door, and reaches in for a diet soda.
The woman doesn't spare me a second glance as she turns and heads to the cashier at the front of the store.
It took her seconds to assess me, to find me lacking, and to decide that I wasn't even worth a polite conversation.
I'm not Nash.
I'm not Hollis.
My ego isn't hurt or bruised by her dismissive attitude.
I'm annoyed.
I should focus that annoyance on where it belongs, and that would be on myself at thinking that I could just smile at this woman. I should be irritated at myself at assuming that she would be just like any other girl that I would encounter on the beach, but no, I need to blame her.
I need to direct that anger and irritation somewhere.
It doesn't belong pointed at me because I don't make mistakes anymore.
Annoyed, I shove the bottle of water back into the cooler and leave the store.
I'm seething inside, irritated to the extreme.
Thinking I'm done with this situation and knowing that I need to just go home and find something else to do, I can't help but linger outside of the store at a distance as not to alert the bodyguards and wait for her.
I watch.
I'm good at watching. I'm good at waiting. I'm good at reading a situation and knowing exactly how I need to respond very quickly.