Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
“Yeah, I did that,” he nods, his gaze roping me in. Like I’m being tugged beneath serene water, swimming. Swimming. Alive.
I lean over, hand to his cheek, and my mouth crushes against his mouth with deep, deep emotion that pools hot inside of me. Deepening the kiss, I push my body into him, and a noise catches in his throat.
He rolls on top of me, our breaths and bodies colliding together.
Next morning, the sun hasn’t risen yet. But I’m awake and semi-ready for a pre-planned training session with Sulli off the yacht. I’m not bailing on the ultra-marathon next month.
Which means I need to move my ass and run.
I say semi-ready because I’m kind of, sort of, exhausted from my tornado of a birthday. I’ve never had a hangover. But this has to be close to the feeling.
I breathe easier knowing Rowin is gone and fired. SFO kicked him off the boat last night, and I heard he took a flight back to Philly. Thankfully Farrow has a high immunity against regret and remorse, and I’m so damn happy that he’s not eaten up with blame for Rowin’s actions. For most shit storms, he maintains a not happening again attitude and moves forward with me.
The two of us—we’re fueling a lot of family drama and gossip these days. And by gossip, I mean they’re all just whispering the truth.
“What the ever loving fuck?” Sulli gawks back at me. “Is snot running out of your nose?”
I rub my sweaty, snot-running face with the bottom of my green muscle shirt and then spit a wad of phlegm. Drop-dead-gorgeous, me. Clearly marriage quality, me.
Struggling to run up all 588 steps of the Karavolades Stairs in the Cyclades Islands, me again.
As the sun begins to crest the Aegean Sea, warm light bathes the winding, cobbled stairs that stretch up a rocky cliffside. Starting at the seaport, Sullivan, Akara, Farrow, Jack, my bodyguard, and I have been ascending the weaving steps towards the town Fira, the capital of Santorini.
My endurance is up to par. What’s really kicking my ass is the cobbled ground. The hard, uneven terrain beneath my soles sends shockwaves up my body. Rattling my shoulders and my slowly healing collarbone in this imperceptible, painful way.
“I’m not dying,” I say confidently to Sulli, who has braked three stairs ahead of me. Her Camp Calloway baseball cap shades her green eyes from the growing light. She uses the pitstop to stretch her muscular arm across her chest.
My cousin is not even winded.
Whereas Akara and Farrow are panting, both drenched in sweat and catching their breaths. Jack is also beat, but he has the added weight of a light steadicam contraption attached to his chest.
All four stare down at me like Stubborn Fool is written in bold letters across my forehead. Farrow, in particular, has been eyeing me with a bucket load of concern but also amusement.
“I’m keeping up,” I add. “Go, don’t stop.” I start back up into a jog.
And they follow suit before I can even pass them.
If this were a race, I wouldn’t be in last. My bodyguard has fallen way behind. Bruno is in really good shape for fifty-two, but he’s bulkier than us, his muscle mass weighing him down.
Each pounding step is a razor blade. And a jolt of pain.
For Christ’s sake, my stomach churns. And the switchbacks, the constant curving of the steps, don’t help defeat nausea.
Keep up with Farrow. I repeat that mantra. Focusing on that, I start closing the gap. He runs at Akara’s brisk pace, Sulli outracing them by two stairs.
I try harder. Sweat dripping down my temples.
I go faster. Breath blazing in my burning lungs.
But no matter how far I strain my muscles, how much I push, how much pain I endure, it’s not good enough. It’s not where I need to be for Sulli.
Push harder.
I do.
And my rubber sole slips on wet cobblestone. Fuck.
Fuck.
I almost go down—I reach out, grabbing the back of Farrow’s white tee. My boyfriend instantly extends his tattooed arm backwards, catching my forearm. And then he pulls me up to his side. All the while we’re still moving.
My pulse skips a beat. The effortless affection striking me hot.
Farrow is smiling at me, knowingly, but it fades fast. And he calls out to the others, “Stop!”
I’m on my knees in a flash. Puking off the side of these old steps. Farrow crouches and puts a hand on my back.
“Moffy.” Sulli skips down the stairs to me. “Oh fuck.”
I spit off the cliffside, my head whirling. “I’m alright.” The amount of times Farrow has seen me upchuck is startling.
“Drink this.” Farrow hands me a 32 oz. blue water bottle.
“Thanks,” I say seriously. I unscrew the wide cap, and I glance back at the camera pointed at me. “Possibility that tourists will take pictures next to my puke spot?” I try to lighten the mood that I’ve sunk.