Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
The view from the deck is stunning, showing off the Vieux Port de Cannes and its bustling, high class atmosphere. It’s so glamorous here that many yacht afternoons involve nothing more than hanging around on the boat while it’s moored, but Heath has gone all out for this reward – as expected. We’re going to be having a true sailing experience.
“I know you love the sea,” he says.
He takes a seat next to me on the deck, not nearly so caught up in his disguise as he was at the vineyard just a few days ago. He’s opted for casual. A designer shirt in whites and pale blues, with no tie. A dark blue pair of chino shorts finish it off perfectly. His hair is in a ponytail, and he’s wearing a cap, but it isn’t twisted up and out of view this time around, and his sunglasses are smaller today.
Josh is in purples, hardly a shocker. A deep mauve t-shirt with some black chino shorts like Heath’s – clearly plucked out of Heath’s wardrobe.
I’m the only one truly dressed up for the occasion, my makeup styled to the max and my hair flowing down my back, sleek and straight. I’m in a fitted black sundress, with my tiny black bikini underneath, and it barely covers my ass.
I adore the way the guys don’t take their eyes away from me for so much as a second. The possessiveness in the air from last night still lingers, tense. Hot. Spicy. Enough to give me tingles.
These two stunning men haven’t stopped staring at me all morning. Even through our fruit salad breakfast they looked more ready to eat me than their slices of watermelon. They’d have been more than welcome to, if we hadn’t been pushed to get ready for our adventure.
“Drinks, Mr Mason?” our assistant asks Heath, clearly recognising him, but Heath directs the question to me. “Le souhait de la dame vient en premier.” Ladies first.
“An orange juice, please,” I say. “I’ve still got a muggy head from all those cocktails last night.”
“Same,” Josh says. “Add some lemonade to mine though, please.”
Heath is grinning, his smile perfect in the sunlight. “In that case, I’ll side with these conservative sailors and go for a juice myself. I’ll have grapefruit, please. Grapefruit and soda.”
The assistant leaves us to it, and I dare to probe Heath as to the prices on here, even for an orange juice.
“You don’t want to know,” he says. “It’s quite frankly ridiculous, but that’s Cannes for you. I bought a place here when I was stupid enough to think I wanted to be at the heart of the faux, pretentious celebrity community, but the villa became too much of a home to let go.”
“Woah. We must have cost you a fortune on our excursions this week.”
Heath is still smiling, kicking his legs out with ease. “You make it an entirely different matter altogether. You make the experience more than worth it. I’ve enjoyed every single second. Money well spent.” He looks at me in particular. “I wouldn’t deny you anything, Ella. Any capital involved is irrelevant.”
“Neither would I,” Josh adds, then elbows Heath in the arm. “Heathy baby may have all the dollar and swagger of an A Lister, but I’d still pamper you like a fucking princess.”
“You do pamper me like a fucking princess,” I say to my boyfriend, leaning over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Every single day. And you know what they say? Treat me like a princess, fuck me like a whore. I’m a winner on both fronts.”
“Thumbs up for that,” Heath says. “And I’m not a bloody A Lister, Josh, thank God. I can’t hack the attention of being a B Lister, let alone the top of the tree.”
Heath is playing it down a bit. Yeah, worldwide he has more of a cult status than a mega movie celeb would have, but in London, he’s one of the best known faces on TV.
I think he’s playing it down for himself, more than anyone else right now, and that works for me. Whatever it takes to make him feel good. He’s certainly feeling better at being outside the villa walls.
I just hope it can last when we’re gone.
When we’re gone.
Fuck, how that thought pains.
Tomorrow morning we’ll be on a flight out of here, back to not-so-sunny Heathrow airport.
It’s not just the hangover giving me nausea, it’s the knowledge that we’ll be leaving our wonderful client behind. So much of me wants to take him by the hand and ask him to come with us, but I can’t. I daren’t.
Nausea turns into excitement as the yacht’s engine fires up. I hand my juice to Josh so that I can jump up and down as we depart from the marina, transfixed by the trail of foam the boat is leaving behind.