Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“Thank you for coming on this not-date—”
“Mont, I…”
I trail off, he breaks off, and we both turn to look at each other. We smile—his smile is shy, and mine is too wide. I’m about to laugh nervously because my heart is thudding, and it feels like we’re going to enter a moment.
Zing. Zing. Zap.
What the hell? When did it start raining out here? When did it start up with the hail? Wait. The sky is perfectly clear. I look at Mont, and he looks back at me, and we both hear the buzzing at the same time.
That isn’t rain pelting us. It’s hornets.
Or wasps.
Whatever, they’re both just as bad.
I do the first rational thing and race off, swinging my shoes in wild arcs and screaming at the top of my lungs. Luckily, Mont is racing a few feet away from me and doesn’t bite a shoe for dessert.
He throws his shoes and races toward the water. Something dark goes flying. His wallet? Then, a black blur whizzes past my face. A phone?
He’s running faster than I’ve ever seen anyone run, and my lord, he’s a work of art. I should be focused on the sinister buzzing coming at me from all directions, but I only have eyes for him.
Zing.
Well, until one of the little murderous beasts pings off the side of my face. I’m lucky they’re not leading with their stingers out. They’re just hurling themselves like mad little divebombing monstrosities of ultimate rage.
Mont is at the water’s edge already. He hurtles forward, arches, and dives while I stop, sand flying all over. I swing my arms madly, trying to escape the shitstorm we just came up on, but I stay put until he surfaces.
“Not the water! These things can follow a person for miles! I can barely swim as it is!”
His eyes lock with mine, and they go wide. Probably as wide as mine when I see what his clothes look like when they’re wet and plastered against a body that is the nectar of the gods, or for the gods, or for me.
“Ouch!” It takes about half a second for my brain to register the burning, horrible pain, but when it does, it seriously does. “Motherfucker!” Dancing on the spot isn’t going to save me.
Nothing is going to save me.
Mont looks like he needs to save me.
He comes charging out of the waves, water pouring and spraying all over. One stride to retrieve his phone and wallet, another to get his shoes, and then, he’s racing at me, his long legs eating up the sand. Sand, sand, sand flying everywhere.
The pain hits me in a wave of agony that doubles me over. I bend at the waist, bile rising in my throat. There’s something wrong with my chest. The hornet stung my heart. It stung my heart, and I’m going to die now. It’s stopping. I can feel it writhing in pain, and I can’t breathe through it.
I’m literally swept right off my feet just as the black spots come for me. The new angle puts me upright enough that my vision clears. I’m not dying, but the pain. Oh my god, the pain is red hot. It’s like a scorpion just crawled up my shirt and put my nipple in its pincers.
My. Nipple.
Holy fucking crab legs, I was just worried about my nipples being visible, and now I’m worried about them for an entirely different reason. No, not both. Just the one.
My face flops awkwardly onto Mont’s shoulder as he runs. He’s got me snuggled firmly in his arms, but I wrap my hands around his neck and shoulders anyway. At least, this way, my teeth won’t go through my lip when I faceplant into his muscles again.
He’s so strong. Strong enough that he doesn’t slow down one bit while he’s got me. He keeps running, sand flying up behind us. I can feel his boots thumping me in the back, and I somehow still have a hold on my own shoes.
Then, he does this miracle where he opens the car door amidst all the buzzing and shoves me in. He quickly gets the door shut before any of the mini-asshole attackers of death can get in behind me. He’s sprinting around the car and flying into the driver’s seat before my brain has fully caught up with what even happened out there.
My. Nipple.
Yes, that deserves to be repeated with two freaking dead-end stops for emphasis. Who stings someone’s damn boob?
It’s going to fall off. It’s cherry red. It’s on the stove, forced onto a burner, and it’s been struck by lightning. It’s swelling up like an overinflated balloon. It’s going to pop, it’s going to burn up, and it’s finished. I’m finished. It hurts so much that I might die right here.
I drop my shoes on the floor, but I keep fanning my arms around in here. Maybe a miracle will happen, and the extra air circulation will work its way through my clothes and stop the motherloving agony that is coursing through my body.