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)
The last time I worse it was in Paris.
Hmph. Maybe this lipstick’s speciality is poor decision-making.
Behind me, someone jeers. Probably someone staring at our bums. Zoe slides a sultry glance over her shoulder and winks.
“Why not? You and me, we look good enough to hurt someone’s feelings tonight. Someone say, like Al,” she adds in a low taunt.
I smile but don’t have it in me to answer. A night on the town isn’t what I want to do because what I want to do is smash things. But I couldn’t be in that house, with them. There’s very obviously something going on between them. Not necessarily a romantic thing. It’s probably just sex. That is his speciality.
“Hey, Zoe?” She turns her head my way. “What was that cosmetics woman like? You know—the one the boss man was seeing before?” And now I hate myself.
“Cosmetics?” Her brow creases.
“You said he had a woman over for dinner. Not a business dinner,” I add.
“Oh, her. Blond and well maintained, if you know what I mean. Why do you ask?”
“There was a woman at the house when I left.” I aim the words airily and hate how they seem to get stuck in my throat.
Her footsteps halt immediately. “Get out!”
I glance at my shoes, not wanting to risk her seeing my expression.
“So that’s why he let you go tonight.”
“Apparently.” Ack. “She wasn’t blonde, though.” But there is such a thing as hair dye.
“Was she German?”
I shake my head.
“Wasn’t her. She was a real Powerfrau.”
I square my shoulders, lift my chin as though I’m not picturing them together. Or poking that bruise-like sensation in my chest.
“Where are we going?” Alejandro appears to my left, his gaze slipping over me so quickly in that way men everywhere seem to have perfected. Not Luc. He takes his time. Until he wants to ditch a bitch, I suppose. Fucking coward.
“Social Club?” Zoe suggests.
“Too early,” he answers.
“The Marina, then?”
“You been to the beach yet, Rose?”
I shake my head.
“What about the cathedral?”
“No.”
“Let me take you sometime. Show you around.”
“S-mooth!” Zoe makes a gesture like the easy glide of something. “Take a gal to the cathedral. Bitches love a cathedral.”
“Knock it off,” I half laugh, half say before glancing Al’s way. “That would be nice. Sometime.” Sometime never. Seems I’m getting better at this lying business because, tomorrow, I’m out of here.
“You look gorgeous tonight,” he adds quietly, so as not to be overheard.
Who doesn’t like compliments? Apparently, this girl. But Alejandro is handsome, uncomplicated, and he appears to be interested. Three qualities that ought to place him above a certain brooding Frenchman.
“Thank you.” I smile, but in a friendly sort of way. “You scrub up well yourself.”
His answering grin is warm and immediate.
There. That was easy. No need to examine every syllable for meaning. No wondering if his interest is real. I glance away. Everyone around us seems blithe, bronzed, and beautiful. And I still can’t find it in me to give a fuck.
“Your mission tonight.” Zoe tips her head to my shoulder. “Should you accept it, is to drink something expensive you haven’t paid for.”
“Steal?”
“Girl, someone else is gonna buy that drink.”
“Oh. Right.”
“And you’re gonna dance until the sun comes up and, before it does, kiss at least three people.”
“Three?” My nose shrinks back into my skull. I couldn’t think of anything worse.
“Two, if one of them is very talented.”
“I’d like to submit my interest early,” Al says, though I pretend not to hear as Zoe’s arm comes down in front of me like a barrier at a rail crossing. She points to a courtyard with twinkling lights.
“Here.”
The bar is almost hidden behind a courtyard filled with lemon trees strung with fairy lights. We have a drink there—beers all around—before moving on to somewhere to dance. A cavernous club with ceilings vaulted like a church. The dance floor is packed, the DJ playing dance music loud enough to discourage overthinking.
We find a table—it’s bolted to the floor—the seating a couple of olive-colored velvet semi-circles. Alejandro flags down a waitress and orders wine before declaring the bottle inferior to Casa Alegría’s. Then taking far too long to explain why. Thanks to the music, I hear only one word in three. Pretty sure I’m not missing anything as I periodically nod and smile. I’m not in the business of making people feel bad. Al is a nice guy, even if he is a total wine bore.
“To think,” Zoe says, leaning in with a gleam, “I could be peeling garlic right now.”
“And I could be,”—stabbing M. LDH with a butterknife—“washing my hair.”
“The vibes. They are not vibing. Let’s order another drink.”
Cocktails this time. A margarita for Zoe and a Paloma for me. Tequila, pink grapefruit, and lime over ice with a chilli-salt rim. It’s refreshingly delicious and just bitter enough to suit my mood.