Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
I can already hear the tabloid rats squeaking.
Foster’s new fling! Younger, hotter, and sweeter than Miss Dumas? Did we mention younger?
New heartbreak, ahoy! Meet Shepherd Foster’s stunning new victim.
A new mistress for Aidan Murphy’s nephew! Will she come out of it alive?
Fuck.
I swallow a lump of tension that feels like solid lead.
What I should have done is vetoed this whole idea, no matter how adorable she looked trying to sell me on otters, batting her eyes.
Olympia, field testing our drones, the damned otters, everything.
The fact that she’s scared to death over her presentation tells me she put the proper effort in.
The proposal is probably fine without this excursion.
The wind smacks my face, disrupting my melancholy.
It’s a brisk morning as I pace around the beach, checking my equipment for the seventh time.
If we’re going to do something monumentally stupid, we’d better do it right.
I’ve got everything that was on my list. Hopefully, Destiny comes prepped with everything I instructed her to bring.
I offered to provide it myself, but she insisted on lone wolfing it.
Here’s hoping she hasn’t gone for the budget options.
A rough and tumble venture like this requires the right gear, and I always opt for quality.
Five minutes before our agreed meeting time—eight a.m. to make sure we’re in full light—Destiny arrives, already in her wet suit.
I’m lucky my jaw doesn’t hit the ground.
Full body with curves for miles stuffed in a skintight suit.
Long legs, man-eating hips, the slim dip of her waist, all on full display like a brunch buffet.
Every blessed bit of her begging for my hands.
It’s so tempting I have to ball my fingers into fists and stop just short of fucking biting them.
Jim Carrey in The Mask has nothing on what I’m feeling as I try to tear my eyes off her prancing around in that wet suit.
She raises a hand when she sees me, oblivious to the fact that I’m one brush away from blowing in my pants like a boy on prom night.
“Hi,” she says shyly.
Hi? Fucking hi?
At least she came prepared, I suppose.
“You’re here,” I say curtly.
On time, I don’t say.
“I figured you’d appreciate me being punctual, especially when we’re doing something like this. Thanks again for taking a leap of faith, Mr. Foster.” She nods at my kayak parked by the shore and the still water nearby. “Is that your ride? She’s a beauty.”
“She’s sturdy and efficient,” I clip, looking over her shoulder to see what else she’s brought. “Where’s yours?”
“Oh, that’s the one.” She jerks her thumb behind her. “Do you mind helping me carry it down? I had to fight hard enough to get it on my car.”
“You tied it up there by yourself?”
“Well, yeah. I’m too old to call my dad for help lugging around heavy things, and too stubborn to go begging random guys. I’ll show you.” She rolls her eyes as she starts back up the beach.
She’s wearing sneakers right now, but there’s a waterproof backpack slung over her shoulders, and I can make out boots dangling from it.
By the looks of it, she’s gone out of her way to buy the full kit.
Impressive, considering she only had a couple days to pull everything together.
“I can handle myself out here, in case you have any doubts. I’m not a china doll,” she tells me as she leads the way to her small VW Bug.
It’s blue—Wailea blue, I think, remembering that special shade of paint from Maui—and there’s a slight dip in the side where it looks like a dent has been popped back into place. Whale-shaped air fresheners hang from the rearview mirror.
It looks like a car that’s been well used and well loved.
Not at all what you’d expect from a billionaire coffee mogul’s daughter who must have a trust fund large enough to leave her plenty comfortable for life.
Although it’s old and dented, it’s been lovingly polished, and I think she had the paint touched up recently.
“Um, this is Ladybug,” she says, patting the roof affectionately.
My eyes snap up.
Somehow, defying commonsense safety and possibly the laws of gravity, there’s a kayak strapped down with webbing.
A very nice kayak.
I reach up and run my hand along its side without thinking.
“This is a decent piece of equipment, Miss Lancaster. Congratulations.”
Assuming you ever use it for more than a weekend hoofing it with your boss, I think grimly.
“Is that such a shock?” Destiny folds her arms. “You don’t think I’d figure out how to shop?”
No, actually.
Most people who are new to this addiction tend to buy the flashiest boats. The brands that get promoted with young, hip models who spend more time on their haircuts than paddling on the water.
This is a Boundary Rider 520 with a sleek green hull.
Versatile, stable, and pricey but reliable.
“I could have lent you one of these if I’d known,” I tell her. “I only use this brand.”