The Wrecked One (FALCON FALLS SECURITY #7) by Brittney Sahin EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
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- Authors: Brittney Sahin
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 5.9 MB
- Price: Free
OLIVER
BANGKOK, THAILAND –
VALENTINE’S DAY 2025
“You’re going to break it. Do you know what you’re doing with
that?” I held out my hand as Mya fumbled with the buttons on the Nikon
D6 on loan to me by our employer, FYVM Media.
Whirling around to face me in front of our hotel, she shoved the camera
against my chest. “You took photos of me.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” I did my best not to laugh as Mya
whipped her hands to her hips, trying to stare me down. Well, more like up.
I had at least six inches on the woman.
One of the friendlier valets peered our way, grinning, and I politely
nodded. He didn’t need to understand English to spot the universal signs of
a pissed-off woman. And my Thai only consisted of about four or five
phrases, which I’d only learned to frustrate the fireball currently shooting
eye-daggers at me.
Dirty phrases, full of naughty fucking words, too. Lines she blushed at
whenever I whispered them into her ear. Spoken as often as possible, and
only to get a rise out of her, ever since we’d arrived last week, flying in
from FYVM’s Swiss headquarters. Of course, I did the same in French in
Paris, in Arabic while in Yemen, and so on.
“You told me to take pictures.” I powered off the Nikon and looped the
leather strap around my neck, probably looking more like a rich-dick tourist
with a camera that cost over 6K than the professional photographer I was
supposed to be.
She wrinkled her nose (looking far too cute), then opened her arms,
playing slice-and-dice with her hands through the hot, late afternoon air.
“Did you just growl at me?” I laughed that time, then stepped aside as
the same valet opened the door for us.
And yeah, we were arguing in public outside our hotel. Not ideal, but I
supposed this unexpected moment wouldn’t blow our covers considering
Mya was technically my boss in this undercover assignment. It made sense
an uptight reporter might lecture her photographer if he was doing a shit
job. Not that I’d done that. Not even close.
“I don’t growl,” she sputtered.
“Sure you don’t, butter—” I cut myself off, forgetting for a minute I
wasn’t Oliver Lucas.
Removing her sunglasses, she shook her head and thanked the valet in
English, then proceeded to walk ahead of me, sashaying her hips with
purposeful intent (because she also liked to get a rise out of me, like below
the belt).
Her sundress molded to her frame under the local humidity, clinging to
her curves.
Sundresses were both a gift and a curse. Whenever Mya wore one of the
three she’d packed for our undercover assignment, I always developed an
unhealthy case of blue balls, and always at the worst times. Like three days
earlier, when we’d been interviewing a high-profile diplomat for the story
we were currently working on in Thailand.
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