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)
The last thing I want to do right now is drag my suitcase and bag through a mess of sweaty, sunburnt and impatient people who are all apparently willing to throw hands over a car.
I glance around, weighing my options -
And that’s when I spot it.
A sleek, expensive-looking car pulling up near the edge of the arrivals area.
It’s far enough that no-one has noticed it yet - at least that I can tell - and I instinctively steer my body towards it. It’s clearly a higher-end taxi, which means it’ll be more expensive, but given the current hell-hole that I’m in, I’d say it’s definitely worth the extra fee.
Before anyone else clocks onto my discovery, I make my move, cutting through the crowd with laser focus.
As soon as I reach the car, I pull open the back door and shove my suitcase onto the seat, ignoring the fact that the driver hasn’t even stepped out or so much as offered to help.
Rude, but whatever. I’ve secured my golden ticket out of this nightmare.
Or so I think.
Because just as I’m about to climb in, a low, amused cough sounds behind me.
I turn, and -
Oh.
There’s a man standing there.
A very, very handsome man.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered and unfairly good-looking in a way that should be illegal this early in the day.
Messy dark brown hair. Sun-kissed skin. A sharp jawline that could probably be classified as a weapon.
And eyes.
Bright blue, watching me with far too much amusement.
I blink. He smirks.
“I believe,” he says in perfect English, laced with an unmistakably French accent, “you are hijacking my ride.”
I pause, my brows furrowing.
I glance at the car - at the unoccupied seats, the lack of his name scrawled across the side, and the entire absence of any indication that there’s some sort of formal reservation system before looking back at him.
"Your ride?" I echo, skeptical.
“Well, it was mine. But who am I to disrupt the travel plans of a beautiful English girl?”
I narrow my eyes.
Oh, I know exactly how this goes.
This is the exact setup of every horror film involving a young, naive tourist who gets lured in by an obscenely handsome local before mysteriously disappearing forever.
Next thing you know, they find my passport floating in the Mediterranean and my friends are forced to go on some dramatic, emotionally devastating rescue mission.
Not today, Satan.
He tilts his head, studying me and my lack of response.
“English, non?” he asks. “American? Australian?”
“None-of-your-business-ian,” I say flatly.
He laughs, apparently entertained by my refusal to engage.
I cross my arms, standing my ground. Gorgeous or not, I am not about to fall victim to my own stupidity.
"Listen," I say, tone firm. "I don’t know you. And I don’t owe you anything. Go fight the masses and find your own car.”
For a split second, he looks genuinely taken aback - like people don’t usually tell him no. And then, that ridiculous smirk comes back stronger than ever.
“Ah,” he says, eyes twinkling with amusement. “So hostile.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry for not blindly trusting a strange man who just appeared out of nowhere and thinks I should graciously give up my one escape route for him.”
Ugh. Men.
His lips twitch. “I was going to suggest we share it, actually.”
I blink, momentarily stunned.
Then, I bark out a laugh.
“No,” I say, shaking my head firmly. “Absolutely not.”
His brows lift, like he genuinely can’t comprehend my refusal. “Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I actually want to make it to my friends alive?”
He exhales a laugh, shaking his head. “Dramatic.”
He’s beginning to irritate me now, and my expression turns more into a glare.
“Practical,” I correct.
“Ouch,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest and feigning deep offense.
“You’ll survive.”
The driver turns towards me and begins speaking in rapid French, likely asking for the address of my hotel and effectively stopping this strange man from trying to argue any further.
Finally - someone sane in this situation.
Before I can respond, the infuriating would-be abductor rudely interrupts, launching into smooth, rapid-fire French so ridiculously fast that it makes me question whether I ever actually studied the language at all.
I mean, technically, I did. Five years of it, in fact. Enough to order a croissant, ask for directions, and understand the occasional flirty comment from a waiter.
But this is a whole different league.
I barely catch a word, my brain short-circuiting as he strings together sentences like some kind of French-speaking machine gun, leaving me blinking like an idiot.
The driver listens, nodding along, and then gestures for me to get in the vehicle, stepping out to load my suitcase into the boot after all.
I narrow my eyes at the smug Frenchman.
“What did you just say to him?”
He leans against the open passenger door, smirk firmly intact.
“Nothing bad, I promise.”
I don’t trust him at all.
“This is exactly how women end up on missing persons posters,” I mutter, mostly to myself.