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I keep my gaze focused on him and sip my fresh drink, only half listening to Amelia’s incessant chatter. This is about the time when I’d post something, or Harley would snap a photo for Instagram. I itch to text her, but I don’t have my phone.
It’s one of the things I like most about this little excursion—no phones. But it’s also forcing me to relax and just live in the moment. It’s probably not the best idea for me to just disappear without my phone for days and days if I want to stay relevant, but I really don’t care. I need this break. If people cared before, I can make them care again.
When I put down my glass on a nearby table, a male voice draws me from my thoughts. He’s not talking to me; someone else holds his attention. A shiver slips down my spine. There’s velvet in his tone. I turn my head to find the blond sitting next to Amelia. He’s blinding, like the sun, dressed in white with that light hair.
A member of the idle rich with nothing better to do.
This heat is intense. Sweat beads on my forehead and chest. I need another drink. I swing my legs over the side of my lounge chair and head for the bar since I don’t see a waiter milling around. Weaving through the people on the deck’s an art. Even though the waters are calm, hands are not. But I’m an expert at avoiding handsy assholes at clubs, back from when Harley and I would go sneaking out at sixteen with fake IDs.
New York clubs and bars are either hard core with the ID or not. There’s no in between. Sometimes major cleavage and a short skirt can do the trick for girls. Girls get the guys in. The guys have money and buy the drinks.
I think that was one of our first YouTube videos.
That got us both grounded by her father for two weeks.
She’s my best friend and I pretty much grew up with her and her parents. After her parents split, she stayed with her dad and he watched out for us both since I was on my own.
My head spins with how big this yacht actually is. I pass the living room that sits under the pool. The glass bottom of the pool is the ceiling, and I cringe looking up at it, making a mental note not to take a swim.
There are lots of rooms along the hallway, none of them empty so far as I can see. The place is seriously like a modern floating mansion. And right now, I just need a little bit of quiet time. I wonder if there’s a more private bar where I can be alone. It’s not long before I find exactly what I’m looking for, and as I come to an empty room, I almost squeal with glee.
Done in red velvet and dark wood panels, it reminds me of an old-fashioned smoking room for rich men. It has chairs and side tables, and even a coffee table, like a clubhouse. I walk over to the bar, pour myself a big drink, and scoop up the magazines on the coffee table before sinking into a large wingback chair to read.
They’re not exactly books, but they’ll do for now.
I have no idea why this room is empty when there’s a full waitstaff, but I’m grateful for some alone time. Maybe everyone else just wants to keep rubbing elbows… and other things… out in the open.
I get up a few minutes later to check the back of the bar for snacks. I bend down to look through the shelves when the door opens, so I crouch low, sipping my drink. The pressure in the room changes and all my senses grow taut.
Whoever it is moves stealthily. I take a breath, unsure why I’m hiding.
I rise slowly, and then I look up.
It’s him. The man who caught my attention on the deck. Up close, he’s older than I thought… or maybe it’s his eyes that are old, like they’ve lived through different lifetimes and personally visited hell. They’re eyes that have stories most don’t want to know, but for some odd reason, I do.
For the first time I wish my talents lay in paint and brush rather than the ability to turn found objects into art.
“I thought I was alone,” I say, the words tumbling from my lips. “I’m Dakota.”
He doesn’t answer. His intense, hard gaze moves over me like he’s grazing my skin. He’s so tall, and I’m not exactly short at five foot seven, but somehow, I feel like I’m barely a foot off the ground. I swallow hard as he moves closer, reaching over the polished wood of the bar for a bottle of rum.
And though he doesn’t touch me, the whisper of air on my bare arm tingles like he licked my skin.
He opens the bottle and silently, I hand him a glass. The clear liquid fills the glass. Then he nods to the one in my hand.
“Jesus,” he mutters. The voice low, rough like gravel, the kind of voice I didn’t know I liked, the kind of voice that finds its way down deep into my soul. “Are you even old enough to fucking drink?”
“Most men here try to ply with me booze, not talk me out of it.” Another mess of words. I shrug. “Age is just a number.”
He raises a brow. I edge out from behind the bar, aware I’m wearing a skimpy bikini Amelia insisted on giving to me. It came in a cute little lacquered bag with the tags still on it, tags she ripped off before I could see the cost. I’m wearing a white gauze lounge top over the suit, and I suddenly feel completely underdressed, like I’ve just stepped into a boudoir.
The man doesn’t comment on it; he doesn’t have to. The dark light in his eyes pulls me to him, makes me want to ask what I should wear because the expression is one of both desire and disapproval. I’m a little shocked by my reaction to him, by my wanting to please him. That’s new.
I start to down my drink when he grabs my wrist.
It’s like the singe of a wild flame, that touch. His hand is huge, tattooed with something that covers the top completely and disappears up his wrist and into his shirt. From the quick glimpse, I think it’s a snarling, fang-baring snake or dragon or beast.
There are thick silver rings on his fingers. The one on his middle finger has a square black stone in the center, and the one on his thumb is inscribed. It doesn’t look like it should belong, but it does, the way he doesn’t seem to fit the vibe on the yacht, yet somehow… he makes it all his own.
