Primrose
I sit back in my chair and stare at the doorway long after Luc has disappeared through it. What the heck was that all about? And I really did only come back down to get my shoes. But also because a tiny part of me wanted to see how Luc handled the Felix situation.
So why am I sitting here like the queen of Sheba at his say-so? This is not my job, though it’s nice to be waited on. And I did see appreciation in his blue gaze. A warmth even. An understanding. Perhaps we’ve reached a truce of sorts.
Except… I reach for my wine. No. There wasn’t an ounce of surrender on that handsome face of his. And then there was the roofies comment. I wouldn’t rob either of us of the experience. I shiver, despite the evening still bearing the sun’s warmth.
The wine is cool in my hand and the glass condensation-slick, and liquid turns from pink to gold thanks to how the terrace lights strike it. As I swirl the glass, I’m hit by a sudden notion; Luc might be watching from an upstairs window. I adjust my posture hoping to look relaxed yet alluring.
Looks like he’s not the only one ready to give up.
Only he’s still actively fighting for the experience and I’m still fighting myself.
My mouth curls against the glass’s fine rim as I watch a breeze lightly ruffle the pool’s surface, disturbing the moon’s reflection. The wine is cool and tart and delicious as I swallow it down. It’s strange how nothing makes you want something like putting it out of reach.
As I’m finding out for myself.
Head and body at war, sense and sensibilities no longer friends. It’s a whole thing, I think with a sigh. He was super hard to resist being hot and bossy, but this sweet side of him is sort of—what was that?
My head jerks up as, overhead—like, directly above me—comes a noise I dread.
The clack-clack-clackity sound that is the reason I’ll never live somewhere warm or tropical.
A frickin’ gecko. I hate geckos with all that I am worth, and the thought that one is currently loose and dancing on the arbor above my head is a nightmare.
They are the stuff of nightmares with their rubbery bodies and suction cup fingery things.
I shrink into myself and will it elsewhere as I gingerly slide my glass back onto the table. It’s not going to fall, I silently soothe. Those things stick like snot on a stick. But I know that’s not true. Ask me how I know. Only, make it a time I’m sufficiently medicated to tell the tale.
Above me, I swear I hear the faintest pop. Another then another then another, almost like four microscopic suction cups just relinquished their hold. I look up just in time to see sometime pale and small become subject to gravity.
The something lands in my cleavage, and I freeze. This is a sign from the universe—a warning. Stop thinking perve-y thoughts about your boss or it’ll rain a plague down on me. A plague of…
I look down, and the worst thing I can imagine stares back at me from, nested where no lizard should ever be. For one long second, neither the gecko nor I react until, like a climber dangling perilously from a rocky crevice, he drops a little more.
FML. The devil’s minion just disappeared down the front of my dress.
I scream. Boy, do I scream. It’s not a little scream—or even a human sounding one—as I launch out of the chair, sending my wine glass flying across the table.
I begin yanking at my dress, leaping around like a leprechaun on a bad trip thanks to the distress of a million suction cup feet plodding all over me.
“Get it out—get it out!” I shriek, praying for the telltale slap of lizard against tile.
But it doesn’t come, and I don’t consciously make my next decision.
I just know that one minute I’m wearing a cute sundress and, the next, I’m shedding it and my dignity.
Which leaves me standing at the pool’s edge in nothing but a pair of pink knickers, performing what I’m sure must look like a full-body exorcism as its phantom sucker feet continue to Irish dance all over me.
There’s nothing else for it: I hurl myself into the pool to rid myself of the sensation.
The water slows everything down, cutting off sound and sight and calming my farm, my tits, and my skin.
My feet touch the pool’s bottom before I push upward, jackknifing through the surface again.
I cough and push the wet hair from my eyes…
only to be faced by a pair of dark suede loafers at the pool’s edge.
My gaze travels upwards. Bare ankles. Linen trousers.
No prizes for guessing who.
“What the hell happened?”
There’s no amusement in his voice—none—as he drops immediately into a crouch. His eyes move over my face, then the water around me before he gives his head a shake, probably discarding any theories he might’ve had. “Are you hurt?”
Was he scanning the water for blood?
“There aren’t any crocs in Mallorca.” Unless Manu took my shoes already and left his in their place. Crocs, I mean.
“Croc—did you bump your head?”
“No,” I say to the tune of a Homer Simpson, Doh, mainly because I’ve just noticed how free boobs react like flotation devices. Who knew? I hunch forward a touch as I continue to tread water, but the traitorous fun bags keep rising to the top, all sort of: Look at me, Luc! Luc at me!
“What happened? I heard you scream and—”
“I was startled by something,” I say, hunching more.
I think I’m mostly okay. It’s dark now, and the pool lights aren’t set so bright where I am.
Also, the way his shadow falls over me helps.
I might just get away with this, I decide, sliding my arm across my chest to hug my shoulder.
I can tread water one-handed, no probs, see!
“Primrose, that was not the scream of a startled woman. It was the scream of someone being murdered.”
“Might’ve been preferable,” I mutter.
His brow furrows as he throws out his hand for me to take. “Did you fall in?”
“No, I just fancied a dip,” I snark, slapping it away.
“Primevère.”
“The water is just lovely.”
“I’m not getting in.”
“That wasn’t an invitation,” I retort, more prim than Primrose.
He drops his forearm to his knee. “I almost hand a fucking heart attack running out here.”
“A man of your age ought to be careful.” The words come out of nowhere, even if my insides turn a little marshmallow-y
“Clearly,” he says with such dry amusement, the word could snap.
I give a little snicker and glance towards my sundress lying in a crumpled heap behind him. And his gaze tracks. Whomp-whomp.
“Like I didn’t already notice you’re naked,” he says, his concern undergoing a transformation.
“Don’t,” I mutter. “And I’m not naked. Just topless.”
“And that’s why you’re in there and I’m not.”
My brow furrows.
“I got a fucking shock, okay? I was about to jump in after you until…” His eyes dip at the precise moment my left tit escapes my hold, my nipple bouncing into the air like a naughty puppy’s nose.
“Stop that!” I squeak, not sure if I’m talking to him or it.
“So it appears there was an incident.”
“Does there?” I answer airily. Or snarkily. It’s hard to tell. I think my ears might be waterlogged.
“Would you like some assistance in exiting the pool?” He holds out his hand again.
“No, thank you.” Not with you here.
“So you’re saying this isn’t your attempt at getting me naked … by getting yourself naked?”
“I told you, I’m not—okay.” This is so awkward. Jesus, give a girl a break. “So there was an incident.”
“An incident with your dress or the pool?”
“An incident with a gecko.”
“A what?”
“A gecko.” Why I decide imitating the noise of their freaky people is a good idea, I’m not sure. “With the eyes, the see-through skin, and the horrible sucky feet.”
“A gecko made you shed your dress and jump into the pool.”
“Was that a question?” I snipe. “It fell on me, all right.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Barely.
“It fell down the front of my dress. Got caught in the waist.” This isn’t funny, Luc.”
“You called me Luc.”
“That is your name.”
“I’m glad you know it. It usually seems like you have other titles, ones you won’t let spill past your lips.”
“Fanciful thinking. And stop laughing.” I splash water at him, and he rocks back, and begins to properly laugh.
“It’s so not funny.”
“This is relief. I thought you were hurt, seriously.”
“I nearly died!”
“From a gecko.”
“It had feet, and they were running all over me.”
“Lucky gecko.” He drops his head as though he’s sorry he said that. “Come on.” He holds his hand out again. “You can’t stay in there all night.”
“I can stay here until you leave.”
“There is nothing I haven’t already seen,” he reasons.
“Like that means anything,” I say, ignoring how my fingers are turning pruney.
“If I leave, they,” he says, pointing over his shoulder, “still catch everything.”
“Oh, balls,” I groan. The security cameras. “Can you turn them off?” My voice sounds small. “I better not get loaded to the internet.”
“And you know, the security team will be doing their rounds later. With their dogs.” He watches my shoulders slump. “Let me get you a towel.”
“You should’ve said that in the first place,” I mutter, then stare at his unfairly sculptured bum as he crosses to the towel warmer. He jerks his head in the direction of the steps at the far end before shaking out the fluffy cotton and holding it wide.
I breaststroke (literally) to the shallow end.
“Higher. And no peaking,” I call out. He lifts the top edge above his eyeline. “And, again, this better not find its way onto the internet.”
“I’ll delete it myself.”
“You can’t watch it, either.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.” I say as the water sloshes around my claves, then my ankles.
I keep my arms wrapped around my boobs. Yes.
It’s such a small word but with potentially a dangerous meaning.
The steps are long but not deep, but there are enough of them that I have time to think.
When I reach the last step, I fold my fingers over the edge of the towel, pulling it from his hold as I simultaneously wrap it around myself.