Mr. Bossy Billioanaire and I
And she couldn’t imagine doing it without a body suit on, because going out in public with her scars on show drew too many stares, too many pitying looks, and too many intrusive questions.
But on a whim, she still couldn’t explain, she had bought a swimsuit when she’d bought her wedding dress. It was a strapless emerald-green one-piece with a ruched panel in the front and a matching sarong. It was still in her suitcase—she hadn’t bothered unpacking it—because taking it out would be admitting she longed to swim, to feel the cool caress of the ocean around her body, to be lifted weightless in its embrace. Free to move with perfect symmetry instead of her syncopated gait.
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