Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 91820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
I tip my head back and look at West. He looks totally peaceful. Man, he’s just so damn pretty. And why am I just only now noticing how long his lashes are? I have to pay for extensions if I want to look like that.
But seriously, how did I get so lucky to land a guy like him to have a fling with?
I mean, I know I’m not hideous. But he’s out of my league. He’s out of most people’s leagues, to be honest, except for maybe Bella Hadid. She is beautiful.
And here’s little old me, getting to do lots of dirty things to him and with him.
I’m taking this as my cosmic payment for having such a shitty mother. Two weeks in paradise, being screwed into oblivion by West.
Well, I’ve definitely earned it.
This is getting a little boring though. Not the staring at him. No, I could do that all day. I just mean, lying here while he sleeps and I’ve nothing to do. I don’t even have my phone with me. I left it back at the villa. No pockets on my bikini to put it in.
Someone needs to invent that. A phone pocket on a bikini.
Maybe I will, and it’ll sell millions. Then, I can stop working crap jobs to support myself while I try to make it as a writer.
And I’m still staring at him like a little stalker because there’s nothing else to do. Can I be classed as a stalker if I’m here by invitation? Not that he invited me here, but you know what I mean.
I don’t think this classifies me as a stalker. Still, I think watching him sleep would definitely stick me in the creeper category.
“Are you watching me sleep?”
“What? No!” I nearly crap myself, jumping out of my skin. My voice is all high-pitched, clearly giving away that I was in fact watching him sleep. Also, is he a frigging psychic or something?
He blinks open his eyes and smiles lazily at me. “You’re a terrible liar, Double D.”
“Am not.”
“So, you admit that you’re lying?”
“Nope.”
He stretches, yawning at the same time, and then his hand rubs at his abs. “What were you doing then?”
“Just lying here … contemplating life.”
“You were contemplating life?”
“Yep.”
“How’d that go?”
“Okay.”
“You figure anything out?”
“About what?”
“Life.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Was it to lie about watching the incredibly good-looking guy sleeping next to you?”
“Ugh! You’re such a jerk.”
I give him a shove in the chest, and he laughs.
“A hot jerk who’s right.”
“A jerk who’s wrong.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Just letting you know though … if roles were reversed, I’d have definitely been watching you sleep.”
I stare at his gorgeous face, untrusting of that innocent look he’s giving me. “You’re only saying that so I’ll say I was watching you sleep.”
“No, I’m not. I’m being serious.”
He moves his arm up over his head, and my eyes are drawn to his tattoo. It’s a small cross that’s entwined with rosary beads and surrounded by what I think is holly. Perfect subject change. I’ve never asked him about that or the one on his back before, and now seems like a good time. So we can get off the me watching him sleep subject.
I reach my finger out and touch it. “I like this tattoo. Is that holly around the cross?”
“Yeah.”
“When did you have it done?”
“When I was eighteen.”
“What about the one on your back?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Do either of them have any meanings? I know not all tattoos do, but I know some people get them for specific reasons.”
“I got the one on my back after I was drafted into the NFL.”
“It’s a raven, right?”
“Yeah. That’s my team. The Baltimore Ravens. They drafted me straight out of college.”
“And you still play for them now?”
“Yeah.”
“What about this one?” I’m still tracing it with my fingertip.
“My mom’s name was Holly.”
Was.
“When did she die?” I ask softly. I stop tracing the tattoo and instead curl my fingers around his bicep.
“When I was fifteen. She started getting these headaches. Finally, she went to the doctor. There was a tumor … she was gone six weeks later.”
“West …”
He stares up at the sky. “It was a long time ago, Dillon.”
“I know. But … it’s still shit though. Still unfair.” I take a breath. “My dad died when I was a baby.”
His eyes come back to mine. “I know. You told me that first night.”
“Figures. Did I tell you when and how he died?”
“No. Just that you were a baby.”
“I was eleven months old. He was eighteen. He was on his motorbike on his way to work. A car pulled out, didn’t see him. He died from his injuries while he was in the hospital. He and my mum weren’t together. They’d broken up before she even knew she was pregnant. They were just kids when they had me. But from what I’ve been told from my aunt Jenny, he really stepped up as a dad. I spent more time with him those first eleven months of my life than I did my mum. I don’t think she ever really wanted me.”