Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
"Dana told them they had to wait to get in the pool," Juliet whispers, leaning a little closer as if telling me a secret. "She wasn't impressed."
"Being a kid is hard," I tell her with a grin, pulling my eyes from the little girl when she begins to shift her attention in our direction.
I don't want her to think we're saying bad things about her. I remember what it was like as a child when the adults would whisper. I imagined them discussing the bruises on my skin and the abuse that went on at my home, deciding I wasn't worth the trouble of getting involved.
"Things will look up for her," Juliet says, a softness in her tone as if she would fix all the little girl's problems if she could. "It's just going to take time."
I nod because telling her that sometimes the trauma never goes away, or that the things she suffered when still living at home with her abusive father have the potential to morph into behaviors that would still have a negative outcome on her life, doesn't seem like the eye-opening conversation she may want to have right now.
I'm not saying the girl is destined to live a life of trouble, but there's always a chance.
I know she has more resources and support to work through all that stuff than most kids do, but sometimes the damage is too deep to be completely cured.
"Speaking of the pool," she says, taking a half step forward and positioning her body so she can see me better. "You aren't exactly dressed for swimming."
I look down at my clothes, my jeans and t-shirt just part of my everyday attire, before looking up at her. I use the opportunity to scan her body and feel yet another smile tug at the corners of my mouth.
That is, until I see the scar on her shoulder, revealed by the tank top she's wearing.
The sight of the thin line, still white and visible even after all these years, makes me raving mad, increasing my need to put a bullet between Whitmore's eyes.
She notices where my attention is focused, and it causes her to take another step back, so her shoulder is no longer in my line of sight.
She doesn't mention it or make excuses, and I hate that I might've made her uncomfortable.
"You aren't dressed for the pool either," I say, lifting my soda and taking a sip.
It tastes like acid on my tongue, my hatred for her ex mixing with disgust at being so obvious about noticing her scar.
"I don't plan on swimming," she says. "But I was considering dipping my toes in the water."
I glance down at her sandaled feet, seeing the flash of a bluish sort of green painted on her toenails.
"That's my favorite color," I tell her before lifting my eyes to her.
"Really?"
"It is now," I say out loud before my mouth-to-brain filter kicks in.
I clench my jaw, feeling like an idiot for being unable to control myself.
Her laughter is loud and quick, making that regret dwindle some.
"Maybe we should see what it looks like underwater?" I offer as a desperate need to keep spending time with her builds inside of me.
"You're going to put your feet in the water too?" she asks, her eyes angled down at my feet.
"I'll take my boots off first," I say stupidly, feeling like a man who has never had a regular conversation with an attractive woman before.
"I'd hope so," she says with another chuckle. "Wanna go now?"
"As good a time as any," I say, taking a step in that direction. "Can I grab you something to drink?"
"A water would be great," she says as we walk across the room.
She pauses when I stop in front of the massive fridge in the common area that has the drinks, waiting for me to pull a bottle of water out.
"Thank you," she says when I hand it to her.
The pool area isn't empty like it was last night, but we don't seem to draw much attention as we walk around to the far edge. It gives us a little privacy if we decide to have a conversation, but it puts us directly across from other people.
I fight the urge to ask if she wants to go somewhere else because it feels like we're on display. I know without a doubt that we're being watched, that people are curious about the two of us, despite knowing very few, if any, will ask questions or try to get in our business.
I offer her my hand as she begins to sit down, feeling like I've won a prize when she places her hand there.
She doesn't keep her hand in mine once she settles on the edge of the pool, but I don't feel offended. Maybe she's just as concerned about drawing attention as I am.