Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“You didn't have any sisters growing up,” I say to her. "Did you?"
"No. Did you?"
I shake my head and reach for the split logs lined up outside the cabin. We’ll need to start a fire soon. I make preparations for a fire and keep an eye on her the whole time. "I was an only child. And I think I was enough for my grandmother to handle." I can’t help but smirk to myself thinking about all the antics I got into. My poor grandmother was gray way too young. If I could go back in time, I’d kick my own ass for being a little punk.
She reaches for the logs, to help me. I don’t think so. I shake my head at her.
"No. You focus on the small twigs and kindling; I'll take the heavier things."
She gives me a curious look. “I’m fully capable of helping you with this."
"Didn't say you weren't, but do you really think it's wise to test me right now?” I reach for one of the slim, supple branches from the pile of kindling and flick it against her ass.
"No.” She turns away from me, but I don’t miss her cheeks flushing pink. "Kindling it is.”
She continues to gather the small branches, and I continue to stack logs. "I'm glad I had no sisters,” she says. "I wouldn't wish for anyone to be treated the way I was growing up."
I'm no fool. I'm well aware of the fact that she wasn't treated well, and she doesn't like the restrictions she's had, or will continue to have. It’s no secret that the expectations for Montavio and Rossi women are practically medieval and fly in the face of modern feminism so starkly, it's almost shocking.
Still, I see my chance. I want to needle her a little. I want to see how she'll react, see if I can learn a bit more about her.
"Oh, stop it. You act as if you're enslaved, and not as if you haven't lived in the lap of luxury your entire life. You've had everything you wanted handed to you. Tell me the truth. Did you have a nanny?"
"Of course," she says, unable to hide her terse tone. I'm getting under her skin.
"Didn’t you go away to school?" The pile of wood is more than we need tonight, but I want to keep her working and talking so we continue.
"Yes.” She won't look at me.
“Did you ever have to make your own bed, cook your own meal, or mop a floor?"
"No, but I…"
"If you were to ask your father or your mother or your brother for money, what would they say?"
"They would give it to me, but that's not the —”
"Did you have bodyguards?"
She clenches her jaw. "Of course.”
I don't miss the way she starts flinging the wood at the pile, or the way her breathing becomes noisier as her nostrils flare. She picks up kindling and whips it at the pile with a sweeping gesture, and when she looks at me her chin is high in the air, defying me to paint her childhood as idyllic.
But still, she doesn’t speak, only curls her lip while she reaches for more kindling.
"Did you vacation in Italy?"
"You know I did." Her eyes snap at me. How far do I need to go to make her break?
It's a dick move, intentionally baiting her. But we're here for a reason.
"What were your vacations like? I spent my school vacations raking leaves in the fall, shoveling driveways in the winter, eating Top Ramen for lunch while my grandmother worked two jobs. So tell me, Vivia. What were your summers like?"
"Oh, let's see," she says with a sarcastic twinge in her voice. "Yes, they were beach vacations, I traveled to Europe, I ate good food, and I wore designer clothing. But maybe you'd like to hear about the time when I was sixteen and the cabana boy accidentally touched my hand when he gave me a towel by the beach. Then later that same day, I had to watch my father beat him before he cut off his hand. Should I go on?"
"Oh, poor baby, raised by a protective daddy. Wonder what that's like."
"Or maybe," she says with a sickly-sweet tone, "you'd like to hear about the time we took a Mediterranean cruise, only we had to cut it short because my father had a mistress whose husband died, and it was this big mystery about how he died, and my mother had to pretend she didn't know that her husband had called for the execution of his mistress’s husband simply because he wanted a blow job on the Mediterranean." She shrugs. "But maybe that didn't really matter, because I was drowning myself in my virgin mimosas, because I was never allowed to drink anything but wine and that was only over in Italy, and those luxury fabrics against my skin made me immune to evil, my mother’s tears, or the fact that everyone we encountered cowered in fear at the sound of our names."