Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Something told me he hadn’t informed his superiors about that little tidbit.
“But, sir,” I heard someone protest. Sounded like Bucko.
I looked over my shoulder but didn’t see anyone. Either that was the pilothouse blocking the view, or it was some sort of…well, fuck if I knew. The sleek windows were tinted.
“Oh, calm yourself, Fred,” Adrien replied. “He’s not going to hurt me.”
I smirked to myself.
We did have some strange middle ground, Adrien and I, where we didn’t fear each other. Mere days ago, I’d promised to kill him.
He’d evidently taken that with a grain of salt, despite that he knew I was capable.
It was equal parts infuriating and amusing. Reassuring too, in a way. Like, regardless of how heated things got, perhaps we’d just never pull the trigger on each other. Fatally, at least.
And maybe I would change my mind tomorrow. We’d see.
Adrien rejoined me on the sunbed with a food tray. “I reheated it.”
Utensils this time. Nice.
Grilled meat, sausage, potatoes, and vegetables that looked like they’d come straight off a skewer.
“I was starting to think you had a puppy-play fetish,” I said. “With the collar and making me eat like a dog…”
He winced and shook his head. “I’m sorry about that. I had to make sure you couldn’t escape.”
How many times was that he’d apologized tonight?
“I’m starting to see it now, the Canadian thing.” I gestured at him with my fork. The jeans and the tee didn’t fit the image of a Fed, though. I wanted the stereotype of ill-fitting suits and shitty takeout.
I’d watched too many ’80s crime flicks.
Adrien looked at me, surprised at first, before he connected the dots and let out a laugh.
I liked the sound of his laugh. His voice, period. It was warm and rich—and still cutting when the situation called for it.
The food was incredible. Juicy and tender meat, spicy sausage, perfectly grilled onions, bell peppers, and mushrooms. And the baby potatoes—my God. The skin glistened with oil and herbs, and I liked it when it was a bit chewy before you reached the soft center.
“Can you tell the chef I love potato skins?” I asked with my mouth full. “He seems to be able to do anything. Or she,” I was quick to add. “I’m a feminist.”
He offered a confused smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m doing the cooking on this floating mansion.”
Oh shit. I did not know that. But the presentation! It was like my aunt Genevieve. She used to be a chef. Well, pastry chef, but she made food look like it shouldn’t be touched. Like it was art.
I forked up a piece of sausage and went with the half-truth. “I’m not sure I was ready to give you a compliment.”
“No, I can imagine.” He turned a little rueful. “I’m glad you don’t look like you want to murder me anymore, though. I can live with the anger and the resentment as long as I don’t have to sleep with one eye open.”
Don’t get me started.
I was just going with the flow, man. Processing came afterward. I had a million reasons to be pissed, approximately the same number he did. The fuck was I gonna rage for? I’d fucking shot him. I’d fractured his nose, if only a little. I’d kicked him right in the gunshot wound. I’d kidnapped him. I’d tied him up, I’d given him too little food and water…
I’d never been so fucking screwed in the head as I had been this week with Adrien Mercier. Feeling like shit one second, ready to kill him the next. Wanting him, hating him, finding him endearing, finding him arrogant.
I was livid because I was being kept away from my team, which rendered me useless.
I missed him because I was lonely and…I liked him.
I huffed and shoveled more food into my mouth. “You know they say in some states that if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes? That’s how I am with you. You don’t like how I feel about you, wait five minutes.”
He grinned faintly and scratched his stubbly cheek. “You don’t think it’s the same for me? It’s been a cycle of wanting to strangle you, kiss you, laugh, and shout ever since you pummeled me to the floor in Monaco.”
Fuck. Bad time to smile like a moron.
An even worse time to hear Dad’s romantic bullshit in my head. He always said if love didn’t drive you crazy, it wasn’t love. Not that Adrien and I shared anything remotely close to love—fucking obviously—but that was how Mom and Dad were. They were crazy about each other. Sometimes, all the emphasis on crazy.
“But you don’t need a rusty old fucker making advances,” he told me. “All I’m good for anyway is spending tax dollars.”
Yup. That’s what I’d said. Right. Yeah.
Thing was, behind his wry joke, it was fairly easy to see he was having doubts. He wondered if…maybe…I did see him as a rusty old fucker. And looking back on the blow job, it sort of fit the profile. He hadn’t taken the initiative there either. He’d seemed almost surprised that I had. Also, he was so certain about us being wildly different, me with my “casual sex” and him having put “those days” behind him.