Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“Jamie goes to Mama Tucker?” she prompts. “Garrett and Hannah as backups?”
“I’m good with that.”
“All right. That one was easy. What about our finances? You want to leave instructions to sell the bars, or have someone else run them until Jamie comes of age? Fitz maybe? He’d probably like that.” She chews on the cap of the pen. “Do you want to leave any monetary gifts to anyone or just give it all to Jamie?”
“I think the most important question is—who do you trust to erase our browser history?”
“What?” Sabrina cocks her head at me, bent over her lap while she writes.
“We can’t let my mom do it, and I think Jamie might still be a little young to use the laptops.”
Sabrina’s nostrils flare. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Nope,” I say innocently. “Just trying to contribute to our death wishes.”
She doesn’t have to speak to tell me to fuck off. Her brown eyes scream daggers. I hide a grin and open one of the cookie bags.
By the time we touch down in St. Maarten, Sabrina’s pissed at me because I don’t have strong feelings about how I’d like to be buried or who gets my college Xbox game collection. On the private ferry to St. Barth’s, she just stares out at the dark water as if she’s fantasizing about pushing me overboard. We’re both exhausted and sweaty and fully regretting this whole ordeal—until the boat lets us off at our dock and we walk the sandy path up a hill to the house lit in amber against the night sky.
“Are you kidding me?” Coming through the front door, Sabrina drops her bags and does a full spin, staring up at the high ceiling and exposed beams. She takes in the marble floors and enormous breadth of house. “This place is unbelievable.”
“Dean’s family is hideously rich. You know that.”
“I thought I did, but this is obscene,” she says, skipping ahead of me. “They have a private dock. And a private beach. And—oh my God, there’s food!”
I find her in the kitchen, popping open a bottle of Acqua Panna spring water while shoving fruit in her mouth. On the white marble counter, Dean’s housekeeping staff had left out a serving tray of cut pineapple, melon, and papaya, along with water and a bottle of Dom Perignon. I’d had my fill of champagne on the plane, so I set the bottle aside. There’s also a typed piece of paper lying on top of a thin binder.
As Sabrina bites into a piece of melon, I pick up the sheet and read it aloud. “‘Welcome to Villa le Blanc, Sabrina and Tucker! This binder has everything you’ll need to know for your stay, and you’ll find all necessary keys in the cabinet above the wine fridge. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask our housekeeper Isa, or property manager Claudette. Congratulations to the newlyweds! Love, Lori and Peter.’”
Jeez, Dean’s parents are super-hosts. The binder is a treasure trove of information. Alarm codes. A map of the sprawling property. Phone numbers for a private chef, local restaurants, tour companies. Contact info for Isa, who apparently brings fresh fruit and newspapers every morning. Instructions on how to have groceries delivered to the villa. How to drive the boat. The ATVs and other beach toys. It’s like a mini resort. Goddamn Dean living the life of luxury over here.
We do a quick walk of the first floor, which overlooks the beach out front and is surrounded by palm trees in the back. Sabrina slides open the glass doors to the pool deck to welcome in the cool ocean breeze, white curtains billowing around her.
“You hear that?” she says with a brilliant smile.
I do. I hear the ocean. Waves running up on shore. Distant insects chirping. The soothing near-silence, unbroken by a screaming child or cartoons on TV.
Our earlier trauma dissolves in the night air, all anger and irritability subsiding by the time we shut off the outdoor shower of the master suite and slip naked beneath expensive sheets.
“Do you still regret coming?” I ask, drawing her warm body closer.
She lays her head on my chest, her short fingernails absently stroking the ridges of my abs. “Near-fatal catastrophe aside? No, I’m glad we’re here. This place is incredible.”
I think the dual showerhead was the tipping point that made the trip worth it for her.
“Thanks for being a good sport,” she says by way of an apology.
“No sweat.” I know the woman I married. She can be intense, but that’s ultimately what I love about her.
“I really am looking forward to spending some quality time together.” Sabrina’s fingertips skim up my chest toward my face, gently tracing the line of my jaw.
“Just you, me, and this ass.” I grab a handful and give it a squeeze, to which she jabs me in the ribs.