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)
“Come on. I’ll let you rinse off and get you a change of clothes.”
I let him pull me down the hallway, annoyed that our tour doesn’t include stops in every room along the way. I glimpse the formal dining room, a small reading room with wooden bookshelves recessed in the walls, and a guest bedroom, but most of the doors in the hallway are closed. I want to see every nook and cranny, the pantry, the hall bathroom, the attic. This place has so much history. I’m glad Cristiano never tore it down.
On the other end of the house, tucked in a hallway by itself, a double set of doors leads to the primary suite. After he flips on the light, Cristiano waves for me to walk in first, but I stop at the threshold. The ceiling is decorated with overlapping wooden beams. The white plaster walls smooth down to arched windows. I can imagine the breeze blowing the pale linen drapes toward the canopied bed, Cristiano reading in that chair near the windows or undressing beside the antique bench at the foot of his bed.
I want to kiss his interior design team for what they’ve managed to do with this room. It belongs in Architectural Digest. I mean, for all I know it’s already been featured in the magazine. I chuckle under my breath, and Cristiano looks at me with a curious smile.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell him, trying not to project every single thought flitting through my head.
I grew up in pretty homes surrounded by pretty things, but nothing like this. Cristiano’s villa is special. I glance over at the bed, trying not to linger.
“Do those windows lead to the same terrace as the great room?”
“No, this bedroom has a private balcony. I like to drink my coffee out there in the mornings.”
I chuckle bitterly. “Back home, I gulp my coffee while I’m hurrying to get dressed, and then if I’m lucky I get another cup when I’m at my desk. No harbor views for me.”
“Does your father know you’re unhappy at De Vere?”
I go rigid and shake my head, immediately feeling guilty for sounding so ungrateful. “No. It’s not like that. I didn’t mean to complain.”
I don’t like the way Cristiano studies me, how easily he can see the truth even when I try to shut it away. I keep my attention anywhere but him.
“Do you not feel like you can be honest with him?” he continues. “You mentioned you two are close…”
I hate that he’s pushing the subject. Normally I try hard to keep the deep dives into my feelings to a minimum. Rote routines have helped, relying on the sameness of each day to carry me through week to week, month to month. It was a coping mechanism I developed after losing Winnie, and I guess it stuck.
Though on Ibiza I’ve started to daydream of a different life, I haven’t let myself get that carried away. I’ve given myself this summer, but nothing more. A few months of freedom to get my selfishness out of my system and then I’ll go back home and reposition myself where I belong, at my father’s side, continuing our family’s legacy.
I give a tight shake of my head and turn toward the doors that lead to the bathroom. “It’s fine. Would it be okay if I took a shower now?”
He studies me solemnly before he turns toward the bathroom. If he’s annoyed that I didn’t indulge his questioning, he doesn’t show it.
I follow after him as he strolls past the large free-standing tub and pulls open the glass shower door so he can turn on the water for me and adjust the temperature. I catch sight of us in the mirror above the long vanity, me in my tank top and shorts, my long hair a little tangled and wild after my shift. Cristiano is still in his impeccable suit without the jacket. A laugh bubbles up, but I force it down. It’s so absurd that I’m standing here right now. This entire thing has to have been orchestrated by Winnie. She’s somewhere gloating as she watches me start to undress in Cristiano’s bathroom.
I draw my tank top over my head and Cristiano freezes in place, unblinking until I’ve set it down on the marble counter. Then he forcibly looks away like he’s snapped out of a haze.
“Are you okay with a T-shirt?” he asks, returning to the main room.
“Yes. Thank you.”
When he’s in his closet, I shimmy out of my shorts and drop them beside my tank top. My bra and panties stay on until Cristiano has returned with a shirt. A pair of soft navy boxers are folded on top.
“Just in case you need them. I wasn’t sure.”
I smile. “Thank you. That’s sweet.”
He sets the clothes on the counter, and then instead of leaving, he shows me how to adjust the temperature in the shower. “It’s not as intuitive as you’d think. It’s some fancy brand the designer talked me into. After it was installed, it took me three showers to figure it out.”