Page 4 of Striking
“Listen, you’re only here for a few days, remember? I’m sticking around for the rest of the week when you go home,” I remind him. “I’ve worked too hard to get here to stop now. Two more weeks to go.”
Ares doesn’t look happy but smiles anyway. He knew my answer before he asked the question. “Want me to bring you back something?”
“No, thanks. I’ll find something to eat here.” It’s not like it should be hard. We’re staying in a private villa with a personal chef and staff. I’m not exactly going to starve. But I don’t bother telling him that either. He won’t listen.
“Text if you change your mind.”
In reality, I probably should have skipped this vacation, but seriously... how do you say no to a private island?
You don’t.
At least I didn’t.
One of my sisters-in-law, Grace’s best friend, happens to be a princess, and apparently, friendship has its privileges. Namely, a private island. So when Gracie and Ares asked if I wanted to join them and their kids for a quick getaway, and Lennon told me I could stick around for an extra week and study in peace and quiet, I packed up all my study materials and decided I could bury my head in my notes in a bikini on a white sand beach with bright turquoise water as easily as I could at home.
The first clap of thunder booms in the distance about an hour after everyone else has gone to dinner, followed by a single fat drop of rain... then, almost in slow motion, another drop falls, hitting the center of my open book...
Shit.
I scramble to gather my things and drop half of it in the process. My highlighters go flying as I jump up, managing to catch my headphones as they fall from my ears before they hit the sand, and rush back to the villa, just in time to see a bolt of lightning strike the dock where a boat I hadn’t noticed before is already pulling away.
“Well, damn. Guess we’re going to need another way off the island.”
What the hell . . . ?
I throw a book as I spin around, screaming, and manage to hit the sexiest man I’ve ever seen on the forehead with a fat textbook.
“Fuck,” he groans and rubs his forehead. “What was that for?” he asks, andoh my goodness. . . that voice. It’s silky smooth, like decadently delicious warm chocolate melting over ice cream, tempting you to blow your diet and lick the spoon.
And he’s probably here to kill me.
Great.
Guess I should have skipped studying after all.
“Who are you?” I demand as my eyes scan for any hint of the staff who were here earlier, but I come up empty. This can’t be happening.
I didn’t beat leukemia to die this way.
“Well, love. You’re standing in my house. So I’m fairly certain the better question is who the hell are you?” He holds up my textbook and arches a perfectly shaped blond brow my way.What man has perfect eyebrows?“And why, exactly, are you throwing a pediatric oncology book at my head?”
His eyes slide over my body, and I’m suddenly very aware my favorite white bikini with teeny pink bumblebees embroidered on it may not be the best choice for fighting off some kind of crazy man.
Great. This just keeps getting better.
I’m going to die half naked.
I cross my arms over my chest, holding the remaining books in front of my wet, barely covered boobs.
Wait . . . His house . . . ?What?
“Lennon Windsor-Beneventi is letting me stay here for the week,” I tell him, unsure whether I should let down my guard or try screaming again.
“Must have gotten our lines crossed. I was told Ares Wilder was staying for a few days, but I thought he left yesterday.” Herests my book on the marble kitchen counter and tosses me the fluffy white beach towel hanging from around his neck. We both watch as it falls to the floor when I don’t even try to catch it. And there goes that arching eyebrow again... “You don’t look like an Ares. And I would have thought a professional hockey player would be coordinated enough to catch a towel, love.”
“Ares is my brother.” I take a step closer to the massive island in the center of the kitchen, knowing the big-ass knives are in the top drawer. If this dude is insane, I’m going to need something to protect myself, and I already threw my heaviest book. “He’s the hockey player.”
The lights flicker but manage to stay on as the blond, adonis-like god in front of me reaches for an apple from the bowl of fruit on the counter. “So, not Ares Wilder... Do you have a name?”
