Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 17021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)
And then his eyes. Hazel brown while we were at his bar, but now, with the sunlight, it looks almost like molten gold.
"Something you should know about me, Logan. I'm thorough. When I commit to something, I really commit."
"Good to know." His thumb brushes across my hip bone where my top has ridden up, and heat shoots straight down my spine. My core clenches because yes, Logan is the hottest guy I've ever seen, but he also kisses really, really well. I almost forgot we're in a public place with lots of his staff milling about. "Speaking of commitment—you still thinking about chickening out of the party tonight?"
Right. The surf party. I'd been noncommittal earlier because I'm super awkward at parties.
But I'm standing here with his hands on me and beach air in my lungs, and for the first time in months, I feel something other than the crushing weight of work, work, and more work.
It's probably the island or Logan himself, but I haven't breathed this clearly for so long. What the hell, I've been so out of character, I might as well go all in.
"I'll be there." No playing coy here. I want to see him again, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise.
"Perfect." He flashes his white teeth. "That polka dot bikini should fit right in with the theme."
Heat climbs up my neck and spreads across my cheeks. I'm not the most confident person, especially in a bikini, but for some odd reason, Logan makes me feel, well, sexy. Almost. "I'll try not to disappoint."
"Impossible." His gaze zeroes in on my mouth as he grazes a knuckle along my jaw. My breath catches, and I don't know if he does this to every tourist that grabs his attention, but God, he is so good at seduction.
I can't win at this game, not that I even want to.
We separate reluctantly, him heading back toward the bar, me walking toward my rental. Even as the distance between us grows, my lips still tingle with the memory of his kiss.
He knows how to kiss. I mean, I need to change panties because I just know mine are soaked. He hasn't even touched me like THAT yet.
What is happening to me? I came here to decompress. To read books and drink margaritas and do absolutely nothing productive for seven straight days. I've been on this island for less than twenty-four hours, and I've already kissed a stranger. Some might say I molested a stranger, but it didn't feel like that to me. I don't think it did for Logan either.
I think about my cubicle back home. The beige walls. The way the fluorescent lights make everything look slightly green and hopeless and dying. I mean, it chipped at my soul every minute I spent there.
I booked this trip after calling in sick and realizing I'd rather not feel well than go to work. I'm still twenty-eight, and yet I looked in the mirror and saw someone close to sixty. I felt sixty.
In less than twenty-four hours, I've kissed a stranger who made my knees go weak. I close my eyes and high-five myself. Choosing this break was a gamble. Wish I could say I ran the numbers. Played the odds. But that would be a lie.
As for the job itself, I genuinely like being an accountant. I enjoy numbers because numbers don't lie. But the work environment, the bosses, the cutthroat colleagues—I hate those. I always felt like if I dropped dead one day from exhaustion, they would just move my body to the side and find someone else to take my spot.
And now I'm walking down a beach with the ghost of Logan's kiss and my heart hammering against my ribs.
I feel more alive than I have in months. Or years. It's like waking up one day and seeing the sun shine for the first time.
It's a fling; I know that.
One week.
No strings attached, no expectations beyond right now. I'm allowed to have fun. I'm supposed to have fun. That's the whole point of a vacation, right?
So that's decided then.
I'm going to that party.
Getting ready takes longer than it should, mostly because I keep catching myself grinning at my reflection like an idiot. The polka-dot bikini is perfect—high-waisted bottoms and a halter top that actually supports everything it needs to support. I packed it on impulse because it reminded me of old movie stars, and now it's like I planned this whole thing.
Is this what they mean when they say the universe is sending you a message?
I look good, and I know it. The bikini hugs my curves in all the right places, and my skin already has the faintest hint of color from this afternoon. Just shy of looking like a lobster, but whatever. I twist half my hair up into a messy bun and call it retro.