The Wrong Gentleman(33)

“Hey,” I said, patting the seat on the banquette next to me.

She tilted her head and a warm, inviting smile unfolded on her face. I couldn’t help but grin back. “Hey,” she replied.

“What have you been doing this morning?” I asked.

“Oh, you know, some time on the Jet Ski, a little yoga followed by a massage. You?” She grinned at me, but it struck me that was how she should have spent her morning, and for a second I wondered if I could make it happen.

She’s not yours to fix and protect.

I nodded. “You’re lucky. I’ve been polishing chrome. For hours. And tomorrow it will all need doing again.”

She laughed. “That pesky salt water.”

“It would be much easier if we weren’t in the sea.”

“Right?”

I didn’t get to see this carefree side of Skylar very often. She usually had her defenses up. Or her affability was a mask she wore for the guests. I wanted more time with this girl—funny, playful, and fucking beautiful.

“You have a good time last night?” I asked.

“Better than I thought.”

A mixture of unfamiliar emotions wrapped around my heart. I hated that she’d enjoyed herself with Walt. I wanted to be the one she enjoyed spending time with. I wanted to pull her close and keep her from harm’s way.

What the fuck was happening to me?

I nodded, unsure if relief or anger would escape if I said anything.

“He was a perfect gentleman. You don’t have to worry,” she said.

“No less than you deserve,” I replied.

“I don’t remember you holding yourself back the first time we met.” She grinned at me.

Her sweet honeysuckle smell, the whisper of hair against my shoulder as she spoke, and then that bloody smile. This girl was a perfect storm of trouble. “Yeah, well, things were different then.”

Different because then Skylar was just another hot blonde.

Different because then I’d not seen the glimpse of the woman beneath the mask.

Different because I didn’t want her then like I wanted her now.

She turned to me, her eyebrows pulled together, confusion washing over her face, but before she could ask me what was different, the rest of the crew filed into the mess, silencing our exchange.

But this wasn’t the end of it. It was only the beginning. Last night, seeing Skylar in harm’s way, watching her go to dinner with another man—I realized that I wanted her. One night wasn’t enough, and the myriad of reasons not to pursue anything more with her all seemed to dissolve into the sea air whenever she was around.

She might be a woman I was prepared to go all in for.





Twenty-One





Skylar


“I’m exhausted,” August said, collapsing onto the rattan chair next to mine with a cocktail. We’d found the cheapest bar in Monte Carlo that had a view over the ocean. It was still one of the most expensive bars in Europe, but it was worth it. The breeze from the water cooled the temperature to perfect, the twinkling lights of the marina provided the best lighting, and my drink had just the right amount of vodka in it.

“We all are,” Peter replied from across the low wooden table. “It’s been a long day. But it’s done. No guests and a yacht where you could eat off any surface.”

“Now we can party,” August said.

After Walt and his guests had unexpectedly left, the captain had said that if the yacht was pristine by the end of the day, we could all have twenty-four hours leave. There was nothing more exciting than unexpected time off mid-season. We’d all worked frantically—nothing like freedom as a motivator.

“Who’s getting a hotel?” August asked. “I’m pissed my boyfriend can’t get leave. He’s in freaking Italy.”

“Hotels in Monaco are going to be pricey,” I said. If we’d been in Saint Tropez or Nice or one of the smaller Italian ports, I would have definitely splurged to spend some time on dry land, but Monaco was a different world.

“Fuck it, I’m doing it,” Anton said, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen. “I see it as an investment in my sanity.”

“And your penis,” August said. “Because no one on the boat is going to help end your dry spell, and you know the rule about bringing people back. Anyone else tempted?”

“I’ve booked something,” Landon said, stretching his legs out in front of him, under the table, his shin sliding against mine. Had he meant to touch me?

“You’ve booked a hotel room?” I asked. “How come?” Was he planning to get laid? Why wouldn’t he? He was single and hot. A wedge of frustration settled in my stomach. The idea of him with someone else . . . It seemed wrong. But I had no claim to him. I’d told myself over and over that Landon wasn’t right for me. So why was I irritated at the thought of him kissing someone else?

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m a thirty-two-year-old man who has an opportunity to have a room to myself tonight—I’m going to take it.”

He looked at me as if he could read my thoughts and slid his leg against mine—this time it was definitely on purpose.

I didn’t move. Didn’t take my eyes from him. The rest of the table began to talk among themselves, leaving Landon and me to have a semi-private conversation.