Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“LITA!”
“Please.” She laughs. “You expect me to think you aren’t being a little wild? I’d be disappointed if you said no. You could have come and stayed with me if you wanted a lazy summer.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I look at the people around me, hoping they can’t hear her end of the conversation. For some reason I suddenly think of the man from last night, the dark-haired devil at Aura. I’m almost tempted to tell Lita about him, but what is there to tell?
“There’s been nothing.” I clear my throat. “No men, yet.”
“You disappoint me,” she says, solemn and severe.
I almost laugh.
“If I sleep around, I could get pregnant out of wedlock,” I point out in a hushed tone, knowing the threat would send most of my friends’ grandmothers to an early grave.
Not mine.
“Ah, mon bébé. I’d welcome a little fille. With your eyes?” She sighs as if she’s imagining it.
“Oh god, stop. I’m not getting pregnant. Listen, I can’t talk long. I have to find a job today.”
And not just any job, a job at Aura. I should be there already.
“You’re going to work? On the island?” She sounds shocked.
“Yes. Well, hopefully…”
“Why? Is my son not paying you enough? I’ll wring his neck.”
I smile picturing it. “It’s not about the money.”
I’ve worked for my family’s corporation, De Vere Diamonds, since I graduated with my MBA, and I have no complaints about my salary or my trust fund. I want to work and experience a normal summer here—one any twenty-six-year-old would enjoy—because this might be my last chance to do something wholly outside the bounds of my family. I’ve spent the last three years working my way up the corporate ladder for no good reason other than to make my parents happy. Working for De Vere is what everyone expects of me. I’m the sole heir now, the only De Vere offspring left to carry on the legacy. Lately that mantle has felt too heavy to bear.
“Where will you work?” she asks. “You could teach surf lessons, I suppose. You’d be good at that. Do you have a work visa?”
“Yes, but it’s a bit of a mess. When I first thought about spending my summer here, I applied for a barista position I found online. That’s how I managed to get my work visa in the first place, but then the coffee shop closed and now I’m scrambling to try to get a job before my visa gets revoked. The nightclub I’m hoping to waitress at is really popular so it might not work out, but I still want to try.”
“What’s it called?”
“Aura. Heard of it?” I quip. All the Ibiza clubs that were around when my grandmother was my age are long gone by now.
She laughs, and then her laughter grows out of control. It’s like I’ve just told her the funniest joke she’s ever heard.
“What?” I ask, having a hard time fighting my smile. “Is it the name? I know it’s a little silly, but all the clubs here have names like that. Amnesia, Solaría, Secreto…”
She finally stifles her laughter long enough to reply. “No, mi niña. Ignore me. I’m old and senile. This nightclub sounds perfect. Let me know if you want me to call the owner and put in a good word for you.”
I laugh at her joke. “Sure. Would you?”
“Consider it done,” she teases.
Chapter Three
Cristiano
Mierda. Something is wrong with me. Usually I love being out on the water. The salty sea air, the lull of the waves, the lure of the surf—the combination is better than any pill on the market.
I lean forward against the railing on my yacht, listening to the peals of laughter and conversation in the distance, but I’m not quite ready to join my friends yet. There’s a tightness in my chest that doesn’t usually trail me out here. On my yacht, I’m supposed to be relaxed, sedate, at peace. It’s in the boat’s name, dammit. Serena.
Today is supposed to be a rare day off. I’ve intentionally made it so no one can bother me unless they have my personal cell phone number. My work phone is back on shore, pinging with alerts I don’t have to worry about until later. The sea is the only place I can feel at peace, far enough away from my businesses that no one can reach me. Well, no one other than the fools I call my friends.
I lean out over the rail, watching Juan Carlos speed like a bullet across the water on his Jet Ski, trying to outpace Mauricio. All the water toys are out today: the slide, Seabobs, paddleboards. I should be down there having fun. Instead, I’m diagnosing myself.
Maybe I’m an addict. Being a workaholic in paradise is a special kind of torture. Constantly surrounded by beauty, unable to actually take it in, is a real problem. I should be worried, but well… who needs all that happiness crap? A life outside of work? A relationship? Who has the fucking time?