Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Well, good,” she says gaily. “Because I do have a lot of male friends. I just get on better with men, you know? They’re less complicated.”
If irony had mass, it would crush this table. The only thing she doesn’t do is add that girls just don’t like her. Instead, she launches seamlessly into another story, something about a spa weekend in Mykonos.
“Oh my God, Mykonos was insane,” Crystal gushes, her eyes lighting up. “We stayed at this private villa overlooking Psarou Beach. It had an infinity pool obviously, and it was white marble everywhere, the works. Chelsea found it through this members-only concierge thing. You’d love it.”
“I doubt that,” I say mildly.
“No. No, you would,” she insists. “It’s very exclusive. They don’t even list it publicly. You have to know someone who knows someone.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Which obviously we did.”
Obviously.
“And the spa there?” she continues, not waiting for a response. “It is unreal. They do this volcanic ash body wrap that’s meant to detox your aura. I don’t know if it did anything spiritually, but my skin was glowing for days.” She leans forward again. “But the best part was the beach club. Although.” She wrinkles her nose. “There was this whole drama about sun loungers.”
Of course, there was.
“So, we reserved this front row cabana.” She gestures animatedly. “It’s in a prime spot with a direct view of the DJ booth and the sea. But when we got there, this Italian influencer and her boyfriend were already in it. And she pretended she didn’t speak English.”
A tragedy.
“I mean, she absolutely did speak English. She’d just posted stories on Facebook in English like ten minutes earlier. So, Chelsea confronts her, very politely, and the girl just keeps smiling and saying, “No English, sorry’.”
“So, what did you do?” I ask dryly.
“I handled it,” she states proudly. “I called over the manager, the hot one with the sleeve tattoo, and explained the situation. He was mortified. They moved her immediately.”
“Efficient.”
“I know.” She beams. “Honestly, you just have to know how to talk to people.”
I take a measured sip of whiskey. It helps to drown out the incessant talking. Crystal continues with barely a pause.
“And then that night we went to this tequila tasting thing at the villa. Which was a mistake.” She laughs, tossing her hair back. “Chelsea cannot handle tequila.”
“What happened when she drank the tequila? Incapacity? Hospitalization?”
“No.” She giggles. “She just gets dramatic. After two shots, she was crying about her ex. And then she tried to jump into the pool in her dress because she said it was symbolic.”
“Symbolic of what?” I dare to ask.
“Letting go,” Crystal says solemnly, then immediately ruins it with another laugh. “She slipped before she even got to the edge of the pool. We had to help her upstairs.”
“And this was amusing?”
“Obviously. I mean, not at the time. But the next morning? Hilarious.” She grins. “You should have seen her mascara.”
I try to picture it, but my brain won’t bring anything up.
Crystal tilts her head. “You don’t party much, do you?”
“No,” I say simply.
“Oh, come on. You must do something. You’re too intense not to blow off steam.”
I consider that. My version of blowing off steam involves boxing at six a.m. or acquiring a competitor’s assets.
She studies me like I’m an interesting challenge rather than an incompatible human being.
“Well,” she says slowly. “We’ll have to fix that.”
There it is. The assumption that I require correction because I don’t think embarrassing myself in public is a fun time. Crystal takes a sip of her wine, her lipstick adding another smudged red crescent on the glass.
“You need fun in your life, Mr. Axel Rhodes,” she says with mock severity. “Balance. Spontaneity. You can’t just work all of the time.”
“I don’t,” I say.
“Oh?” Her brows lift. “What do you do for fun then?”
I pause. To engage or not to engage? “I assess risk.”
She stares at me. Then she laughs, assuming it’s wit. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s not fun.”
“It is if you win.”
She shakes her head, smiling like I’ve said something adorably strange. “You’re different. I like that.”
Blithely, she dives back into the Mykonos saga, detailing outfits, DJs, a minor feud over who got tagged in which photo. Names blur. Anecdotes tangle. Every story she tells ends in a crescendo of laughter. But internally, I am withdrawing. Each anecdote is weightless. Each observation is surface-level. No depth. There is no curiosity about the world beyond how it appears on an Instagram page.
I study her clinically. She is very easy on the eye, with symmetrical features. Clear skin. Nice teeth. Healthy, by all visible metrics, and she would probably produce an aesthetically pleasing offspring, but she is entirely unsuited to keeping around long-term. Unless I can buy the baby off her and send her packing, she is no good for what I need.