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I remember him tucking me into his bed, making sure I got medicine and drank water—even as I protested.
I remember him rubbing my head for what must have been hours.
And me: needy, desperate for his touch. Actuallywhiningwhen he stopped massaging my aching head. Pretty sure the only thing that interrupted his ministrations was me giving him trouble, telling him I hated him or scolding him for calling his yacht a boat.
I am pretty much the worst.
I can almost hear Merritt and Eloise scolding me for treating Ben—whom they both seem to love like they’re BFFs—this way. They’d tell me I should be grateful and thankful. Eloise would be aghast at the words that came out of my mouth.
For once, I totally agree with my imaginary sisters.
But … it’sBen.
Benedict King. I’m not even typecasting when I say he’s the richest of the rich playboys. The fact that he owns the whole ofOakley Island is a testament to the first. Proof of the second was in the many, many gossip articles I saw linking him with various hot and, in many cases, famous women.
I also might have searched the price of yachts this size, and the number was staggering. Like, it made me want to vomit. Again. It also made me want to be super careful not to break anything because I for sure can’t afford to fix it.
Even aside from my moratorium on serious relationships post-Justin, Ben is a hard pass on principle. Which is why I need to get out of bed right this instant before I catch feelings like a virus.
Ben shifts, smacking his lips and muttering something about pineapples. I barely manage to stifle a giggle.
He might be my nemesis when he’s awake, but I can admit he’s adorable when he’s asleep.
He’s also pretty great in a crisis. Tender and thoughtful and willing to sit beside me while?—
NOPE. That’s feelings talk. And we will have no feelings aside from a healthy disdain.
Very slowly, I inch my way out of bed, pulling a move Indiana Jones would be proud of as I replace my body with a pillow for Ben to cuddle with. I’d snap a photo, but I don’t have my phone.
Goodbye, Ben, I think as I watch him breathe.Time to reset this relationship.
Back in my room, I take a shower and change into my own clothes. Though I should return Ben’s shirt and pants … I don’t. Because he’s asleep, I tell myself. But it might also be because they’re soft. And still smell like him. And I may or may not want to crawl back into them the next time I go to sleep.
It’s dark out but I still can’t find my phone, which is concerning, so I’m not sure if it’s ten o’clock or three in themorning. Whatever the hour, a need for coffee drives me to locate the galley.
I’m no better off now than I was the first time I sought a caffeine fix on what I’m quickly determining is just a giant, floating maze. This time, it takes almost ten minutes and several wrong turns, but I finally make it. When the door finally swings open, revealing the gleaming, modern kitchen space, I can’t stop myself from muttering an exasperated, “Finally!”
Four sets of eyes blink at me. They’re all sitting on stools, playing cards on the marble prep counter. Pretty sure I met three of them the other day, though the details feel a little fuzzy.
Leandra is the grandmotherly stewardess who’s known Ben forever and calls him Benedict. The man with the closely cropped gray hair is John—the chief something-or-other? I remember the chef, who has a line of silver hoops on one ear, but his name escapes me. There’s another, younger man with a blond ponytail I don’t remember meeting. He jumps up when he sees me, like I’ve interrupted something insidious rather than a card game.
“Hello!” I pause inside the doorway, waving awkwardly. “Sorry to startle you. It took me a minute to find the galley.”
Leandra stands, walking over to give me a smile and a brief hug. “Ms. Markham! So glad to see you up and about. Feeling better?”
“Yes, thankfully. I hope I’m not interrupting. I just needed to find coffee.” My stomach chooses that moment to let out a Godzilla-like roar.
“And maybe food?” Leandra says with a chuckle.
“I don’t want to be any trouble,” I say.
Leandra waves away my concern. “It’s no trouble. Coffee can be ready in a few minutes, and Tao can whip something up to eat, I’m sure. I don’t think you met Danny”—the man with theponytail grins—“but he’ll get you a stool so you can join us. That is, if you’d like to. We’re just playing a little friendly poker.”
“Not so friendly,” the chef—Tao—says, as he gets up. “I fold. Take my money, you thieves. Sadie—what sounds good? Are you craving anything in particular?”
I’m about to say something else about not wanting to be trouble, but Leandra levels me with a look and then pats the stool Danny brought over. I sit.
“I don’t actually know what time it is, but breakfast sounds amazing.”
