Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
It dawns on me that this is exactly why I don’t take time off. I start peeling my life-onion, removing one layer at a time, overanalyzing everything, which inevitably leads to spiraling and negative self-talk. This is not relaxing.
I blame you, Mom and Dad. Learning to relax was never in the program. It was always go, go, go at our house.
Don’t get me wrong, they were loving parents (when I saw them), but all they did was work. Mom is a lawyer, and Dad runs his own construction company. Both are successful now, but in the early years, they put in a lot of hours. Growing up, the expectation was that I, too, would someday work myself to the bone and conquer the world.
And if you think my aunt—a stay-home mom who babysat me five days a week—was any mellower, you’d be wrong. Between taking care of me and her two kids, she was always busy. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, homework, and after-school-activities chauffeur. She never stopped moving. And I never learned how to chill out.
A random beach ball flies into my lap, splashing the piña colada down my cleavage.
“Ooh, that’s cold!” I grab the rolled-up fresh towel from the empty chair beside me and start dabbing my bright green bikini. It’s a hideous color, but it turns out there aren’t too many choices when you go shopping for a bathing suit at the drugstore when the mall is closed.
“Hey, old lady. Can we have our ball back?” says a little boy, dripping with pool water.
I snarl and toss it at his feet. My sunglasses are splattered with sticky stuff, too, so I take them off.
“Excuse me, ma’am? You’re alone, right?” says a woman about my age.
I look up. “Sorry?”
“Oh. I was wondering if I can take that lounge chair next to you.”
I gasp. “What makes you think I’m alone?”
Her eyes move to the book on the table next to me.
I’m reading How Not to Become a Cat Lady. “Well, I’m not alone. My friend’s here with me. I’m sure she’ll be along any second.” Back away from the chair, bitch.
“My mistake.” The woman returns to whichever pious, nauseatingly happy cloud she floated in on, and I go back to my book. After a few seconds, my gaze gravitates up again, and I find myself snarling viciously at all these people.
Wait. What am I doing? This isn’t me. I’m not the sort to shun the happiness of others. And I’m certainly not the type to ruin a family’s vacation with my dismal vibes.
I need to go home. I’m never going to relax here. The truth is, I should’ve said no to Sofie because I knew this would happen. Like I said, the moment I stop working or being busy, I start focusing on all the crap in my life that’s missing or not going right.
Right now, I should be apartment hunting and taking full advantage of my days off.
I swing my feet to the ground and slide on my flip-flops. I go to grab my book and sunscreen from the table beside me when something off in the distance catches my eye. It’s a sailboat coming into the bay, peacefully bobbing in the gentle tropical breeze, a white triangle over turquoise blue water.
Just then, a man with light brown hair, wearing sunglasses, pastel-blue trunks, and an unbuttoned white linen shirt, comes up the path that leads down to the beach.
I look away, but then my mind registers something. Oh crap! That man is hawt!
My eyes snap back to his glistening tan chest and rippling abs that remind me of a tray of White Castle sliders. His arms are strong, and his thighs are tight, but it’s his face that really has me glued to the scene. Because he can’t be real. Only in the movies.
His tanned face has these incredible cheekbones and a well-defined jaw. His nose is straight, and his lips are sensually full, like two perfectly shaped apple wedges. Even his chin is perfect with a little dip.
He almost reminds me of Channing Tatum. Wait. No. A dark-haired Hemsworth brother? No. Not that either. He reminds me of someone. Every man I’ve ever fantasized over while using Mr. Hot Pink Orgasm Stick, all combined into this perfect amalgamation of hotness.
My brain is firing off all kinds of signals, attempting to make sense of him. Why is my body reacting like this? I mean, yes, I know why he’s stirring me up inside. Hawt. But why him? Why like this? I’ve seen good-looking men before, but not once did I get all these flutters in my stomach and twitchiness in my labia.
Oh shit. He’s coming straight toward me.
I try to play it cool and start messing with my sunscreen bottle, unscrewing the cap. I expect him to walk by and head into the restaurant and bar area, but then I hear a deep, silky voice that makes my ovaries crack with bolts of electricity like two tiny Frankenstein monsters. They’re alive!