Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
And the days roll on, so Lord send me all the strength.
After dinner that evening—can’t avoid them all, not without making the children think I’ve taken the hump with them—I join the family in a game of cards. The four of us sit on the terrace, and I try to concentrate on gecko watch rather than give in to the effect their father’s proximity has on me.
“Your turn.” Felix looks his sisters way expectantly.
I take a decorous sip of my rosé, courtesy of one of the estate’s previous delicious yields. Beyond the terrace, olive and almond trees turn silver in the fading light as the sun dissolves into the horizon, setting the ocean ablaze in hues of molten copper and rose gold.
Felix makes a noise of frustration.
“I’m thinking,” she complains before putting down her card.
Felix places his own card with an entirely self-satisfied, “Uno.”
Nope, that didn’t sound like he was crowing at all.
Luc plays his card immediately, and I shift my disintegrating hand, matching color to color before staring it for a beat.
“We’re not playing poker,” Felix grumbles.
“What do you know of poker?” his father demands.
I take another sip of my wine before sliding my card into the pile with a sly wink Sylvie’s way. This is a little pocket of unexpected bliss, I think. It’s little wonder this place is Sylvie’s favorite slice of paradise.
I slip off my sandals and press the soles of my feet to the sun-warmed stone. Can’t do this in London. But I’m not going to think about London right now. Not about work or family or what’s in store for me when this strange little interlude ends. My tummy is full, I have a tiny wine buzz on, and the view is heavenly.
Oh, and the view is looking right back at me.
Okay, so I confess, I wasn’t looking at the landscape anymore. I was looking at my boss man, and now he’s looking at me. His eyes are bold and kind of possessive as they sweep over me. Dark and full of… naughty things.
I duck my head and adjust my strapless sundress, confused why that thought feels like a tongue licking my belly from the inside. Lord, my nipples would put an eye out.
I blame the wine. Drink in, wits out.
Or as Lavender says, drink in, tits out. And that wouldn’t be too difficult to co-ordinate in this dress.
“My turn.” Sylvie lays down her card and, before her hand has the chance to retract, Felix slaps his last one down with a shout.
“I win!” He leans back in his chair as though he’s just conquered a country, not a card game.
Sylvie scowls and folds her arms. “I hate Uno!”
“No, you hate losing,” he replies.
“Who likes to lose?” she demands, seemingly to the tune of are you stupid?”
“You should be used to it,” he responds, his tone one of superiority. “After all, you are a loser.”
“Felix,” Luc warns.
“Well, she is compared to me.” He gives a belligerent-looking shrug. “I’m bigger and faster, and not a girl.”
“Thems fighting words,” I say, giving him a dose of the old stink eye.
Felix glances disdainfully at his sister. “She loses in the pool, at cards, tennis—everything.”
Sylvie’s little face melts.
“Felix,” Luc says much more sharply this time. “Apologize to your sister.”
“Why? It is true.”
Sylvie pushes back from the table so quickly her chair scrapes across the stone. “I am not a loser, and you are horrible!” Her voice breaks on the last word, and her sandal slap-slaps against the stone as she dashes inside.
For a second, nobody moves. And for once, I can’t feign ignorance because their argument was in English.
And while I sort of feel like leaning across the table to slap him upside the head, I also remember enough developmental psychology to know empathy is a work in progress at his age. In other words, twelve-year-old boys can be self-absorbed little shits. Which is probably why he looks more confused than sorry, I note, as my gaze moves his way.
Small addendum here: I’m aware you can’t slap other people’s children, not even if you think they might deserve it. Or even if they remind you of your own brothers. Brothers who, despite being grown men, are still prone to the occasional bout of tactlessness. Needless to say, I don’t keep my violence from them.
Anyhoo, Luc mutters something low and sweary and makes a pre-emptive motion in his chair.
“I’ll go,” I say, already on my feet. I don’t wait for his permission; I might not be an actual nanny, but I was born for this.
“Can I come in, sweetie?” I ask, pushing the door a little wider.
“Y-yes,” comes her tiny, tear-tremulous answer. She’s lying like a shrimp, curled on her bed, shoulders shaking as she looks toward the image of her beautiful mother.
Someone replaced the glass in the frame. Maybe even the whole frame. Looks like Luc was right. Sylvie didn’t even notice.