Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
I need to know what this means.
What kind of dark side turns him on?
Is he a dom? He looks like a dom. The suit, the authority in his voice and mannerisms, the admission that he’s promiscuous.
I am picturing Mercer tying me to a bed, naked. His eyes locked on mine as he demands things of me.
“Well, hello there.”
I turn and find Locke walking next to me and force myself to put that fantasy away for later. Because finally—the man of the hour has appeared. “Oh, hi. I didn’t see you.”
“I know. I called your name. You didn’t answer. You were very deep in thought, Nova. What’s on your mind?”
I picture Mercer again, kinda superimpose Olsen’s dick on to him, and a flood of wetness pools between my legs. “Oh, nothing.”
“Good.”
I once again shake myself out of the daydream and come back to reality. Locke has appeared. And he’s not beckoning me into the woods with a finger. He’s talking. Like we are friends, or something. So I decide to be friendly. “What are you up to?”
“I saw you and wanted to know if you were busy.” His voice is low and rumbly. Husky. Sexy.
“What did you have in mind?” Mine is sultry.
He chuckles. “You get right to the point, don’t you?”
“Oh. Sorry. I guess I just assumed—”
He takes my hand and pulls me towards the woods. “You assumed correctly.”
We veer towards a copse of trees, then past them and into the foliage. There is a dirt path here, so we follow it. I have no idea where we’re going. Ninety-two acres seemed huge when I got here, and it is, but the campus is actually very small. Less than two dozen buildings, plus the apartments and cottages. And they are all in a sort of strip down the center of the island. Except for the marina, the outer edges are mostly wild with woods.
That’s where Locke leads me now.
“How’s work?”
The word ‘work’ should conjure up images of computer screens and files. Brain scans and paperwork. But instead, I picture Mercer and our date tomorrow. “It’s good.”
“Discover anything interesting?”
“You’re on this project, right?”
“Only technically speaking.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means”—he sighs—“my job is mostly done.”
“Well, I was only asking because I need to know how much I can tell you.”
He looks down at me and smiles. “Got something to tell?”
“No, actually. Not about work.”
“You’ve got… personal things to tell me?”
“Mercer asked me out.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah. But it’s not a date, he said.”
“Is that right?”
“Yep. He’s taking me to Boston. I guess he’s having dinner with his mother? And he’d like a buffer. Something about her hating you?”
He chuckles. “Boy, that’s the truth.”
“Anyway. I think it’ll be fun. I’m dying to know what kind of woman raises a man like Mercer. Plus I get a free dinner.”
“Do you need a free dinner, Ryan?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… are you craving a good pampering?”
“Well. I… I guess I would not turn that down. Who doesn’t want to be pampered?”
“Mercer doesn’t.”
I’m just about to ask all the questions about that when we stop in front of an old iron gate. Locke opens it, then invites me through with a wave of his hand.
I step through and take notice of the aged stone bricks beneath my feet. I’m wearing sandals today. No heel, lots of straps. They are striped. The peach matches my short, flirty summer skirt and the white my button-down blouse.
When I look up I almost lose my breath. “Wow. This is gorgeous. What is this place?”
Locke closes the gate behind him with a squeak, then takes my hand again. “A cemetery.”
“Oh.” I laugh. But now that he said that, I can see it. The grave markers are in complete disarray. They are tilted this way and that. Thick slabs of… I dunno. Granite, or something. Nothing is polished and new, the way headstones are these days. They are the darkest gray with stains and moss. If there is any writing on them, it is well-weathered and crude.
But as we walk, the cemetery changes to above-ground tombs. Like an outdoor mausoleum. Something you might see in France or New Orleans.
Locke leads me past all this to the far end of the cemetery, where there is a clearing that has obviously been kept up, because the grass isn’t tall and wild, but cut very short and almost manicured. At the far end, underneath the waterfall canopy of an ancient weeping willow tree, a blanket has been laid out in the grass. On top of it is a picnic basket and a bucket of ice chilling a bottle of champagne. There are two mismatched, vintage teacups on top of the basket.
“What is all this?”
“Pampering, Ryan.”
“But—” I blurt the word out. “How—”
He leads me under the cascading branches and over to the blanket. Then he reaches down for the champagne and pops the cork. He looks at me with… I dunno. What is that look?