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)
I look down, horrified. I’m wearing jean cut-offs and a white tank top, not even my nice pair of sandals, but the comfortable ones. I smell like Fireball whiskey thanks to a tipsy customer who accidentally spilled his shot down my arm toward the end of my shift. I tried to wash it off in the bathroom, but I still feel sticky.
Oh, this is so not fair. In that suit he’s locked and loaded, meanwhile I’m completely weaponless.
Cristiano’s lazy perusal of me as I walk toward him makes my skin come alive. The way he drags his gaze up my legs, stomach, chest, neck, mouth, eyes. His heated stare covers every single inch.
When I get close enough to touch him, I cross my arms and pitch my weight to one side. “Had I known we were going formal, I would have brought a ball gown.”
He smiles and grips my waist so he can tip me toward him, lean low, and kiss my cheek. “I came straight from a dinner with investors.” Then he finally pulls back and stares down at me. “I like this outfit.”
“Hmm.” I run my hand down his tie. “I prefer yours. You should dress like this every day.”
“I did once upon a time. When I was a young university student and interned at my father’s firm, I had to dress formal. Was a pain in my ass.”
“God, I bet the ladies in that office loved you.”
He chuckles. “I had a girlfriend.”
The word makes my stomach ache. Girlfriend. I can only imagine a twenty-something Cristiano in a suit shredding hearts and devastating girls everywhere.
“How long were you with her?” I ask, my focus on his tie.
“I can’t remember exactly. Nine, ten months. Something like that.” He lowers his head to kiss my shoulder. “What was little Isabel doing then? Hmm?”
“I was in high school. Not dating.”
“No? The boys didn’t notice you?”
I shudder as his hands readjust on my waist, his thumbs sneaking up underneath my tank top. My heart flutters. “No, the boys didn’t notice me. I was studious and boring compared to Winnie. I was already working after school at the De Vere flagship store because my father wanted me to learn the ropes from the ground up. It might surprise you to learn there weren’t a lot of cute teenage boys working at my father’s jewelry store with me.”
“Good.” His head turns so he can press his lips to the hollow of my neck. “I’m glad you’ve been kept up on that shelf, waiting for me.”
I hate the way his words affect me, the way my trembling body subconsciously tips toward him, yearning even as I try to fight it. I shouldn’t want to be objectified—compared to a doll on a shelf—and the fact that I like it makes me feel ashamed, but that shame only adds to the complex cocktail of emotions coursing through me all because of this man.
“Do you want me to take you home?” he asks, rubbing his thumbs lightly across my skin.
I think about it for a moment, and then I shake my head.
“Good. Should we complete another task?”
“Not tonight.”
He steps back and opens the door for me. I climb in, and just like the other morning, he fastens my seat belt for me before he rounds the SUV. I watch him like a hawk, the headlights illuminating his dark figure. He climbs in and my adrenaline spikes, like my body knows I’ve just locked myself in here with someone dangerous enough to hurt me.
“Have you eaten? I can get you something.”
“Yes, earlier, on my break.”
Satisfied, he pulls out onto the road and turns in the opposite direction of my apartment. We talk about our days, I tell him about my morning with Thalia, and he shares the progress at Sabor a Sol.
“Where are we going?” I eventually ask as we drive deeper into a side of Ibiza I haven’t explored yet.
Cristiano looks over at me and smiles, but he doesn’t answer.
We’re heading west, away from the crowded epicenter of the island. We hug the coastline as we drive. Fifteen minutes later, we slow to a stop in front of a gate weighted down with thick swaths of red flowering bougainvillea. Cristiano keys in a code and the iron gate springs to life, sweeping open for us. Cristiano accelerates up the stone drive, and we’re shrouded on all sides by native flowers and plants until we burst through and arrive in front of a one-story villa made of thick white stone, the wooden roof overlaid with clay tiles.
Is this Cristiano’s home?
There’s no telling just how big it is because it’s dark out and a good portion of it disappears within a grove of wild olive trees. He parks outside on the drive and comes around to get me.
“I didn’t realize I was the type of girl you take home,” I tease.