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I’ve been perfectly content to let the world think I’m a privileged screw-up without a purpose. An aimless millennial with too much money and not enough sense. It’s been a nice disguise—an excellent way to hide in plain sight.
This act started when I was younger and needed some protection from my father. Any of my successes drew his attention—and increased his attempts at getting me to involve him in my business dealings. I quickly learned if he thought I was a good-for-nothing screw-up, sure to blow through my inheritance, he had less use for me.
As I got older and found it easier to stand up to him, the need to keep up the act faded. But by then, it was comfortable, like a perfectly worn-in pair of shoes. Showing people—even those I trust—how much I do care is … scary. Sticking to my script feels safer.
But for the first time in … maybe ever, I don’t really want to be that man anymore. At least not in front of Sadie.
Sadie relaxes against me as she drifts back into sleep. I lift my hand from her neck, running it over her hair. It’s wavy when it’s wet, and I find myself wondering if she straightens it every day or what it would look like if she let it dry in the breeze up on deck. My own hair gains a certain unruliness when I’m on the water, a reaction to the humidity and salt in the air.
I vastly prefer that look for myself—barefoot, casual, hair doing whatever it wants to do.
I trail my fingers through Sadie’s hair again, and she sighs in her sleep, then lightly snores. I hold back a laugh.
I should get up. Leave her to rest and check in with German and the rest of the crew. See if there’s any news from Oakley or any new intelligence about the threat that sent us out here in the first place.
Ishouldget up. But I don’t. And maybe that’s the scariest thing of all. I’m not even going to pretend that I want to.
EIGHT
Sadie
Wakingup for the third time on Benedict King’s yacht is a wholly different experience from the first two. For one—I am nausea and headache free. Hallelujah!
I’m currently in what I like to call post-migraine euphoria. I don’t know if this is typical for other people with migraines, but for me, once they pass, it’s like I have a sort of high. Everything is better than normal—I feel happy and floaty and peaceful.
Even more significant: now that I’m feeling better, I’m more keenly aware that I amnotalone in bed.
I should definitelynotbe snuggling with Benedict King. Aka, the man who convinced an agent of the United States government to kidnap me and take me out on the high seas. Apparently, the pirate flag hanging on the yacht was less of a joke than I thought.
Okay,fine.Maybe I’m being a tiny bit dramatic. But in technical terms, it’s true. I had no say in the matter, which makes it kidnapping. As to what makes the seashighversusregular… that, I don’t know. Maybe I should consultMobyDick. I bet Melville can tell me. I just need to find my phone, then I can google and learn for myself.
Ben shifts, and his hand tightens on my hip, bunching up my shirt.Hisshirt, actually, as I’m wearing his clothes. Wearing his clothes. Sleeping in his bed. Snuggling.
Yeah, I need to get up.
I don’t.
The thing is—Iamupset about the situation. More like, Ishouldbe, just on principle. Someone could have at least woken me up to fill me in on the situation before we left Oakley.
But if I’m being honest, hiding out on the yacht is actually a smart idea. If we forget about the two days of crippling discomfort and seasickness, there are definitely worse places I could be. German hadn’t given me details about what we’d do when he reached me. But I’m pretty sure it would have included being sequestered in some janky hotel somewhere with him watching the door while I ate bad room service and climbed the walls.
Instead, I have a pool and a hot tub and a gorgeous view and a private chef who is undoubtedly fantastic. It’s like a forced vacation. I’m not sure I realized how much I needed one until now, when I don’t have a choice. Rather than scratchy hotel sheets youhopewere washed before you checked in, I’m lying on sheets with a thread count higher than anything I’ve known before. I could live in these sheets.
Which brings me full circle, back to the man in bed beside me.
Based on the steady rise and fall of his chest underneath my cheek, Ben is still dead asleep. Even if his fingers are flexing on my hip in a most distracting manner. His light, occasional snores are another indication.
How can snores be cute? Somehow, they are, and I find myself biting back a grin.
The poor man is probably exhausted after playing my nanny and nurse—two roles I’d never imagined Ben playing. But oh, did he ever play them.
Honestly, I’ve never had a guy do this kind of thing for me. Not that I’ve had many boyfriends. Just the one—and Justinneverwould have done anything like this. Five minutes with me groaning—or even just the one vomiting incident—and he would have been gone.
I can’t remember a time I felt so well cared for. Ever. Ben made me feel … treasured.
A hot flush rises in my cheeks when I parse through my fuzzy memories of the last day. Day and a half? Two days? I’m not even sure how long it’s been.
I remember Ben carrying me to bed after I barfed over the side of his boat.
