Page 34 of What Doesn't Kill You…

She cringed. "Please don't use that word. It's…icky."

He stopped in the middle of the palm-lined path. "Icky? ‘Testicle’ is icky?"

"Stop." She held up a hand. "I'm begging you."

He got that fascinated look he got when he sniffed out a story, and she knew he wasn't going to stop.

"Is it only that word or do all genitalia words freak you out?" he said, proving her right.

"Don't say the G-word either," she ordered.

"Okay, this I've got to hear," he said, folding his arms, pain completely forgotten now that he'd sniffed out a story. "What do you call genitalia?"

She cringed. "You're doing it on purpose now, aren't you? This is payback, isn't it?"

His smile was wicked. "If you can knee a man in the testicles, you should be able to say the word. After all, they're part of his genitalia."

She was seriously considering kicking him again. "Just drop it. It's no big deal. Lots of people have aversions to certain words. Move along. There's nothing to see here." She started walking again. The bungalow was in sight. As soon as she was inside, she could lock herself in the toilet until he stopped talking.

"Not so fast," he said, hurrying after with an awkward, limping jog. "I want to know, what do you call your…parts?"

She gritted her teeth. He was like a dog with a freaking bone. This would never end, and then she'd have to break her promise not to drug him again.

"I'm curious,” he said. “Is it all technical terms you have an aversion to or are there some slang phrases that freak you out too? Can you say vagina? Or pussy?"

She was going to puke. She felt her face burn. "Never say that word again, unless you're talking about a cat. Actually, not even then. Just stop with the questions, there's no big mystery here that you have to uncover. I just don't like some words, okay? And my privates are privates. That's it. Nothing more."

Oh yeah, he was totally intrigued. It was written all over his face. Violet wondered if there was a switch somewhere she could use to stop him thinking once he got a whiff of a mystery. Life would be so much easier if men came with reboot buttons. Being misogynistic? Reboot. Arrogantly trying to rule the world? Reboot. Will only talk football? Reboot. She sighed. It would make life infinitely more pleasant.

"So," Max said. "When you go to the doctor with a problem in your, uh, ‘privates’, you do what? Point to the general region and hope they find it for themselves?"

She growled making him increase the distance between them. "This topic is closed," she said, imbuing the decree with all the finality she could muster.

"For now," he said. "And only because I can't risk another kneeing."

"Forever." She unlocked the door and threw it wide. "Drugs aren't the only thing I have with me. Do not test me or you'll find out what else I packed."

"I'm almost tempted," he muttered as he hobbled into their room.

All Violet could think was reboot.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Their dinner reservation was in The Links View restaurant, which unsurprisingly had a view out over the golf course. The dress code was resort formal, which meant most of the women wore glamorous dresses and the men wore suit jackets. Violet felt a little smug in the dress pants she'd found in the hotel boutique. The floaty top Katrina had teamed with them still felt a little too delicate and sexy for her liking, but overall, it was better than a dress. And she had pockets. Max wore a light gray suit with a pale blue shirt that brought out the sparkle in his eyes. His hair was as unruly as ever. No, not unruly, more sexily disheveled.

She shook herself. Why the hell was she even thinking about his hair? The resort was getting to her. It was messing with her mind.

"Why are we eating here?" Violet asked as they all took their seats at a table facing the green. "I liked the fish in The Terrace restaurant. And it was less formal."

Since coming to the island, Violet felt like all she'd done was study what other people were wearing and try to figure out how to fit in. She couldn't wait to get back to real life where she lived in cargo pants and didn't give a crap what anyone thought. Being undercover was exhausting.

"Two reasons." Rodrigo reached for the wine menu. "Evan managed to round up a group of Scottish guys, who he then talked into playing golf on Wedding Island this evening. He's offered to film the whole thing with his brand-new drone."

"What's the other reason?" Violet considered her menu. She wasn't impressed. She'd really been looking forward to exactly the same meal as she'd eaten the night before. It was her Glaswegian tastebuds. You found something you liked, and you ate it repeatedly until you were sick of it. Variety was not the spice of life in Scottish cuisine.

"He's heading our way right now." Rodrigo pointed across the restaurant.

Violet looked up to find Abasi striding toward them, dressed in the more formal uniform of the restaurant waitstaff, and he wasn't happy.