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)
“Let her the fuck go,” he growls. Woah, the man is pissed—seriously—that dispassionate manner of his shed like a skin.
Nils freezes. Though, to be honest, I’m not sure which of us is more stunned.
“Come on,” he placates. “It’s just a little fun.”
“For whom?” Not-Nils demands. “Now, before you force me to do something we’ll both regret.”
His fingers slowly retract and I can breathe again.
“Thank you,” I mutter, not meaning to catch my so-called savior’s eyes. This time, I ignore the electric sensation.
3
PRIMROSE
She must be frigid.
The old wound rings in my ears as I push through the room, my face burning face as I reach the terrace and suck in lungfuls of warm air.
My eyes sting at the echoing slight, which is stupid. It doesn’t matter if it’s in French or English, it’s not even a clever insult. Just a crappy memory. I didn’t even know what it meant the first time I heard the word. The first time the insult was hurled my way.
High school, and Piers Lander, a posh spotty oik from my English class asked me out. I turned him down, probably not very politely. Maybe even with a disgusted twist to my mouth. But I was thirteen, a late bloomer, and still of the opinion that boys were to blame for the ills in the world. I think, on some level, I might not have changed my opinion.
I went home and asked Lavender what it meant. I didn’t tell why because she would’ve probably ended up expelled. Or in prison for murder. Anyway, her explanation didn’t help because, just eww! Who would ever want to have sex—and who would want to have sex with Piers Lander?
Sadly, that wasn’t the end of it because the vindictive little shit’s delicate ego couldn’t take the hit. His mates would snicker as I passed. There were jeers and catcalls in the hallways and stupid comments whispered in classrooms. It seemed to last for years. Of course, my name didn’t help. Primrose. Prim by name, prim by nature. Frigid Prim, the virgin queen. That one had a ring to it, which is probably why the nickname stuck.
But weren’t we all virgins at thirteen? Piers was a little older at fifteen. But I was the girl who didn’t want to have sex. Or go to the cinema to see some stupid action movie with him.
The name eventually lost favor and I forgot all about it until my last boyfriend’s parting shot some eighteen months ago.
“You’re doing me a favor,” Luke had said, standing at the door looking all superior even though I was ending things with him. “You wanna know why?”
“Not really,” I’d replied honestly.
“The sex has been shit,” he said anyway before slamming the door behind him. But not before one last hurled insult. “Frigid bitch.”
The room seemed to echo with it. I’d wrapped my cardigan tightly around myself and promptly burst into tears. It wasn’t long before those adolescent wounds came flooding back. There were other memories too. Past boyfriends and incidences of uncomfortable kisses and awkwardly bad sex. I know I’ve never been good at it. I’ve never been comfortable in my own body, let alone around someone else’s. It’s almost ironic I became a doctor. And almost ridiculous that I imagined, even in some tiny way, that being here tonight might help.
Not-Nil’s dark expression suddenly flits across my brain. Maybe he hates the word too. Maybe the unjustly attractive man is a secret feminist. Maybe—
“Oh!” I’m jerked back to the present when water from the pool splashes the backs of my legs. It takes me a moment to register the dozen or so people in there swimming, lounging about. And other stuff.
“Come and join us,” someone calls out in French. “The water is beautiful.”
I ignore them. They wouldn’t know what to make of me and I sure as shit wouldn’t know what to do with them. I just need to find Sabine, get my phone, and get the hell out of this place.
At the edge of the terrace, there’s a raised platform where a DJ is playing his set. Given there’s no sign of Sabine, that’s probably not Jay up there. Better check anyway.
“Where’s Jay?” I yell, gesturing to the designer label-clad twenty-something as he reaches for his water bottle. I repeat myself in French.
Was he with a girl called Sabine? Red lipstick and long, blond hair, with the air of Judas about her?
He chugs from the thing then gives a careless shrug. So I skirt the length of the pool and slip back into the villa through by a different entrance.
No need to suffer the humiliation a second time.
In the cool, dark of a hallway, I massage my tense jaw for a moment. I wonder why dark and delicious jumped in like that? Boredom, probably. Or maybe he was embarrassed for me. Maybe that’s why his initial interest waned so quickly, almost like he knew. Knew about me.