Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Before I can argue further, he turns slightly, speaking in rapid French to the group of men standing beside him.
I’d been so blinded by rage - and, fine, maybe mildly distracted by how obnoxiously good-looking he is - that I hadn’t even noticed his friends standing nearby, watching our entire shit show of an interaction.
Whatever he says is apparently hilarious (though I highly doubt it), because one of them bursts out laughing. The man shoots him a knowing look before the whole group picks up their drinks and saunters off towards the main crowd, leaving him alone at the bar with me.
I exhale sharply, watching them disappear.
So. He’s not alone.
Great. Now there are more witnesses to the crime I’m about to commit.
"What?" he asks as he turns back to me, smirking like he’s thoroughly enjoying himself.
I shake my head, exhaling sharply.
"I’m leaving,” I tell him. “Before I develop an actual criminal record."
I turn, fully prepared to march away, but he can’t just let me have the last word.
"Running away so soon, mon ange?" he drawls, tilting his head.
I freeze mid-step, my fingers tightening around my glass.
Oh, hell no.
I turn back around so fast that I nearly knock into him again, slightly dizzy from the rapid movement.
"Wow," I scoff, throwing my hands up. "You’re actually the worst."
"No. I’m just very good at handling dramatic situations."
"Dramatic?" I echo, voice rising. "You poured an entire cocktail down me!"
He waves a hand dismissively, as though I’ve just accused him of something as minor as stealing a parking space.
"A little daiquiri never hurt anyone."
I gesture at myself - my once-faultlessly chic outfit now a sticky, strawberry-scented catastrophe.
"A little daiquiri?” I say. “I look like a crime scene!"
His lips twitch.
"A very fashionable crime scene, at least."
I swear on all that is good and holy -
I inhale sharply, willing myself not to shove my entire drink into his obnoxiously symmetrical face.
Really, it would only be fair. That way, we’d be even.
"I’m sorry," I deadpan, "are you trying to piss me off?"
"No." He takes another slow sip of his drink, completely unbothered by my righteous fury. "I truly am very remorseful."
I glare at his stupidly handsome face, his sarcastic tone only winding me up impossibly more.
"You’re still laughing."
"I am not," he insists, though his bright blue eyes are practically sparkling with amusement.
"Alright, then. You’re holding back laughter."
He looks like he’s barely keeping it together, shaking his head again.
"That is not the same thing."
"Oh, it absolutely is."
His smirk deepens. "Maybe," he muses, leaning a little closer. "But… I think you like it."
I blink.
"Like what?"
He leans in even further, his voice dipping into something low and smooth.
"That you have my full attention."
"Oh, please,” I scoff, barely resisting the urge to laugh in his face.
"What?" He lifts a brow, swirling his drink like we’re having some casual, sophisticated conversation and not a post-daiquiri disaster standoff. "If you ask me, it seems like you love arguing with me."
"No," I say firmly. "The only thing I would love to do is leave. Right now. Except…”
Shit.
Why am I still here?!
“...I’m still waiting for you to fix this mess."
"Ah. Of course. The expensive bikini." He pretends to contemplate for a moment before waving his hand dismissively. "No worries. I will replace it."
Oh.
Well.
That was surprisingly easy.
"Damn right, you will. Especially since you’ve ruined my entire evening."
"Where did you buy it?" he asks.
I pause.
Double shit.
"...Selfridges."
"Ah. London," he hums.
"Obviously." I take a leaf out of Leah’s book and toss my blonde hair over my shoulder, like I’ve just made the most obvious statement in the world.
"And what brand?"
I hesitate. Again.
His smirk flickers, like he knows what’s coming. My mouth opens and closes.
Why the hell can’t I think of a single swimwear brand sold in Selfridges?!
I spend half my life in that department store, and now, when it actually matters, my brain decides to shut down.
The seconds tick on, and I accept defeat, mumbling under my breath.
"What was that?" he asks, tilting his head.
I scowl at him.
"I... made it. It’s mine."
He laughs.
Fully laughs.
A deep, warm, infuriating sound that rumbles through his chest, like he’s just won something.
I cross my arms tighter, seething.
"You know what? Forget it."
"No, no," he says, righting himself, though his grin still lingers. "I am a man of my word. I will make it up to you."
"The time for that was before you poured a drink all over me and laughed in my face about it."
"I thought we established that this wasn’t my fault," he says, acting all innocent. "You’re making this sound like I held you down and forced the daiquiri upon you."
"You basically did,” I grumble.
He lifts his drink slightly, like he’s cheers-ing himself.
"Merde, how powerful I must be," he muses. "Stealing taxis, ruining outfits, altering moods… What else can I do?"
Irritated and at a loss for what to do with myself, I snatch another cocktail napkin from the bar and aggressively dab at the sticky mess he caused. It only seems to make it worse as stray bits of tissue stick to my sarong, and with a frustrated huff, I shove the now-stained napkin towards his chest.