Page 7 of The Stranger

“You’re just a sore loser. Maybe we should ask her if she likes to share.” His arm slides around my waist, my momentary shock allowing him to pull me to his knee. “What do you think, beautiful? Want to get to know us both a little better?”

Not-Nil’s blue eyes flare angrily. What the hell? I didn’t even say anything.

“Get off.” I pull from his grip. But blondie makes another grab for me, flashing me his uber white teeth.

“I do like them feisty.”

“Nils.” The other man casually straightens the crease in his pants before his gaze flicks up. Hard. “She clearly isn’t interested.”

“Then she must be frigid.” The insult is a hot whisper in my ear as his fingers span my ribs. “Are you?”

Panic reverberates through me as I swallow over a sudden lump that tastes like old shame. But I will not give either of these arseholes the satisfaction of my tears.

As the youngest member of family, and with four brothers, I know how to deliver a cutting put down. As well as a swift upper cut. But as it turns out, I get to use neither as not-Nate lurches forward with the speed and venom of a cobra.

“Let her the fuck go,” he growls. Woah, the man is pissed—seriously—that dispassionate manner of his shed like a skin.

Nils freezes. Though, to be honest, I’m not sure which of us is more stunned.

“Come on,” he placates. “It’s just a little fun.”

“For whom?” Not-Nils demands. “Now, before you force me to do something we’ll both regret.”

His fingers slowly retract and I can breathe again.

“Thank you,” I mutter, not meaning to catch my so-called savior’s eyes. This time, I ignore the electric sensation.

3

PRIMROSE

She must be frigid.

The old wound rings in my ears as I push through the room, my face burning face as I reach the terrace and suck in lungfuls of warm air.

My eyes sting at the echoing slight, which is stupid. It doesn’t matter if it’s in French or English, it’s not even a clever insult. Just a crappy memory. I didn’t even know what it meant the first time I heard the word. The first time the insult was hurled my way.

High school, and Piers Lander, a posh spotty oik from my English class asked me out. I turned him down, probably not very politely. Maybe even with a disgusted twist to my mouth. But I was thirteen, a late bloomer, and still of the opinion that boys were to blame for the ills in the world. I think, on some level, I might not have changed my opinion.

I went home and asked Lavender what it meant. I didn’t tell why because she would’ve probably ended up expelled. Or in prison for murder. Anyway, her explanation didn’t help because, just eww! Who would ever want to have sex—and who would want to have sex with Piers Lander?

Sadly, that wasn’t the end of it because the vindictive little shit’s delicate ego couldn’t take the hit. His mates would snicker as I passed. There were jeers and catcalls in the hallways and stupid comments whispered in classrooms. It seemed to last for years. Of course, my name didn’t help. Primrose. Prim by name, prim by nature. Frigid Prim, the virgin queen. That one had a ring to it, which is probably why the nickname stuck.

But weren’t we all virgins at thirteen? Piers was a little older at fifteen. But I was the girl who didn’t want to have sex. Or go to the cinema to see some stupid action movie with him.

The name eventually lost favor and I forgot all about it until my last boyfriend’s parting shot some eighteen months ago.

“You’re doing me a favor,” Luke had said, standing at the door looking all superior even though I was ending things with him. “You wanna know why?”

“Not really,” I’d replied honestly.

“The sex has been shit,” he said anyway before slamming the door behind him. But not before one last hurled insult. “Frigid bitch.”

The room seemed to echo with it. I’d wrapped my cardigan tightly around myself and promptly burst into tears. It wasn’t long before those adolescent wounds came flooding back. There were other memories too. Past boyfriends and incidences of uncomfortable kisses and awkwardly bad sex. I know I’ve never been good at it. I’ve never been comfortable in my own body, let alone around someone else’s. It’s almost ironic I became a doctor. And almost ridiculous that I imagined, even in some tiny way, that being here tonight might help.

Not-Nil’s dark expression suddenly flits across my brain. Maybe he hates the word too. Maybe the unjustly attractive man is a secret feminist. Maybe⁠—

“Oh!” I’m jerked back to the present when water from the pool splashes the backs of my legs. It takes me a moment to register the dozen or so people in there swimming, lounging about. And other stuff.