Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Better get on with it. Don’t forget your passport.”
“What for? Where are we going?” I call, moving after him as he leaves the room.
“We’re having what you might call a destination wedding.”
6
LAVENDER
The flight was smooth and the jet luxe, all cream leather and polished wood. And the destination, as it turns out, is Gibraltar.
I’m a first-time visitor, and the things I know about Gibraltar wouldn’t fill the back of a postage stamp. I know it’s a tiny bit of Spain that technically isn’t Spanish but a British overseas territory. I was still oddly amused to see an old-fashioned red telephone box as we whizzed by in our chauffeur-driven Mercedes. If I’d been here with Tod, we would’ve snapped a few pics for Instagram.
Anyway, I know the place has a rock and monkeys, and as of a few hours ago, I also know you can get married here in a hurry.
I arch my back and stretch as I keep my eyes on the vista, ignoring the voices jabbering behind me. Raif, his lawyer, and the two older men who were already at the villa when we arrived speak a language I don’t understand.
It sounds vaguely Spanish, but it isn’t Spanish. I studied the language for a couple of years at high school, not that I remember much more than tengo dieciséis años; I am sixteen years old, which I’m obviously not anymore.
But I’m sure I’ll remind my family of that girl when I waltz back with a new husband.
Reckless. Wild. No impulse control—that girl will get herself into trouble!
I’m pretty sure some of them still see me that way.
Just think of the money, I tell myself.
Ignoring the tense-sounding conversation, I leave the cool of the villa and cross the brilliant white-tiled terrace. I wish I’d worn something other than these heavy Doc Marten boots because the glass-edged infinity pool is calling to my sweaty little toesies.
When I’d pressed Raif on where we were actually going, he’d muttered something about sunshine. So I’d shoved very few clothes and my toiletries into my rucksack before pulling on a pair of slouchy socks and my trusty boots. It had felt like a statement rather than a good choice for the climate.
These boots are made for kicking butt! Though it’s mostly bravado.
The money, my mind whispers again. Don’t look at your handsome husband because you know what happens to your body when you do.
But it happens, of course. My gaze slides his way, setting off a wave of knicker flutters.
Si donde esta mi tequila? The phrase floats into my mind. Where is my tequila? Before university, I spent a month working in a bar in Marbella, living off sun, sand, and sundowners. It’s probably the tequila’s fault I don’t remember much of the language.
I shudder with a visceral remembrance, forcibly moving my attention from the past and onto the view. The azure Mediterranean glitters under a white-hot sun, the rocky point of the peninsula jutting out to the right. I find myself wondering how long it’d take to walk from one end of the country to the other. Not that I’m going to, obviously.
Not in these boots. But you are about to get married in them.
My stomach turns over, and I’m almost certain it wasn’t from terror.
This heat. I really want to take my boots off, but it would probably look a bit weird. It’s midmorning here, and it’s already quite humid. It’s not helping my tiredness, but after drooling and snorting myself awake in his car, I wasn’t about to do the same on his jet. It wouldn’t have been hard, not after I’d insisted on reading through the prenup his lawyer handed to me.
I’m not a lawyer myself, but it all seemed pretty plain. If we separate, at my instigation, before the twelve months are up, I get nothing. At his instigation, before or at the twelve-month period, I get a cool million.
“You’re twenty-four?”
I turn to Raif’s voice. He looks angry as I nod. “Is there a problem with that?”
“I thought you were older.”
I arch my brow, though I’m not sure he can see me over my sunglasses. “You thought wrong, then.” I stare at him, expecting him to say more. When he doesn’t, I add, “My sister Heather is older. Maybe you confused me with her. Sadly for you, she’s already got a husband.”
He clears his throat. His smile is brief and stiff looking as he adds, “Excuse my fiancée, gentlemen. I do love her little jokes.”
Joke’s on him if he thinks I’m any kind of funny.
Huh. Maybe I remember more Spanish than I thought as I hear the rounder of the two men say el vestido. I think that’s the Spanish word for dress. He seems agitated, which isn’t helped by Raif’s dismissive retort. The conversation bounces back and forth before Raif catches my eye.