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I’m sitting at the outdoor bar next to the yacht’s small pool, while opposite me, Leandra dries off a tray of glasses with practiced precision. I’m fully in the shade, but I slip my sunglasses off my head and put them on anyway, if only to make it easier to stare at the women fluttering around Ben like a gaggle of hyped-up groupie butterflies. Gaggle is the term for geese, not butterflies. I think kaleidoscope is technically correct, but I don’t think these women deserve the term kaleidoscope.
Gaggle is more fitting. Because watching them is making me gag.
They’ve been on the boat for less than an hour, and the flutteringstillhasn’t stopped. If I see one more manicured hand reach out to touch Ben’s forearm, I might throw someone into the ocean.
Possibly I’ll just throwmyselfinto the ocean.
I at least find some satisfaction in the fact that German confiscated all three ladies’ phones the moment they boarded.
They were probably hoping to connect toThe Oakley’swifi, which I’m told has been disabled anyway, but German made quick work of gathering their phones. I’m sure their devices are somewhere on board, probably stowed away in German’s room and sadlynotin the ocean like mine. Either way, the women’s whining made me happier than it should have. Two of the three stomped around enough to give three-year-olds a run for their money.
The two guys who boarded with them, the boat’s captain and a guy I think is a brother of one of the women, didn’t broach nearly as much of an argument. The captain disappeared up to our wheelhouse, probably to get a good look at the fancy instrument panel. The brother dude hasn’t left German’s side and looks to be pumping him for info about government agent stuff, only getting glares and deep sighs in return.
One of the gaggle laughs at something Ben says, and the way she throws her head back thrusts her chest directly toward him.
“If those things were spears, he’d be a dead man,” I mutter, and Leandra laughs.
Rather than looking down at the weaponized cleavage aimed his way, Ben meets my gaze from across the deck. Something passes between us. Trouble is, I don’t know him well enough to knowwhat. The look just feels intense and electric. Meaningful in a way I wish I could read.
I look away first, glancing down to adjust my bikini top not for the first time. I’m usually pretty comfortable in my body and hate that I’m feeling self-conscious now. I’m far from flawless, but I’m too pragmatic to get too caught up in worrying about it most of the time. This body is mine, and it’s functional and healthy and whole. There’s a lot more I’d rather do with my timethan sit around wishing for longer legs or visible abdominal muscles.
Still. In my current situation, some degree of comparison seems inevitable. Honestly, it’s ridiculous. All three of the women who boarded the yacht are insanely beautiful in that perfectly polished kind of way. Smooth skin. Shiny hair, which I have no idea how they’re managing with all the salty humidity. By comparison, all this sea air has electrified my hair into a poof ball of riotous frizz.
The woman with the dark hair and sun-bronzed skin looks vaguely familiar—enough that I think she might be anactualmodel. It’s hard not to feel … I don’t know,shabby.
“Really, though—who are they?” I ask Leandra. “Because I’m pretty sure I recognize at least one of them. Is she famous? The one on the end?”
“The one in the pink is Jasmine Wainwright,” Leandra says. “Her family is in the hotel business. The redhead—hm. I can’t remember her name, but her mother is in fashion. Some big designer up in New York.”
I’m less irritated by the nameless redhead. She isn’t pawing at Ben like he’s her personal scratching post. In fact, she’s standing at a more respectful distance, looking slightly uncomfortable by all the giggling and attempts to ensnare Ben by way of cleavage.
Leandra’s face pinches slightly. “And the other is the one you probably recognize—Ana Olivera.”
It clicks into place the moment Leandra says her name. That’s why the woman looked familiar. The big sunglasses and the unexpectedness of her being here kept me from recognizing her at first.
“The actual supermodel,” I say. The woman is famous enough that she only goes by one name: Ana.
Something feels so incredibly pretentious about not just being known by one name, but by a name with only three letters. Two of which are the same. Or maybe I’m just being petty.
Fine.There’s no maybe about it: I am being petty.
What’s even worse? I know why. And I refuse to eventhinkthe word.
Hint: it starts with the letter J and loves the color green.
“They’re not so bad,” Leandra says, sounding like she’s trying to convince herself. “But they’re not so good either. At least, not for Benedict.”
I press a hand to my stomach, suddenly feeling queasy. Leandraknowsthese women. She recognizes them, can name them. That has to mean they’ve spent a good deal of time on Ben’s yacht. With Ben. He called them acquaintances, but they’re clearly more. And, by the looks of things, if they had their way, they would beevenmore.
The thought makes me irrationally possessive (and that other word I still won’t admit), which makes me even more irrationally irritated.
I’m not supposed to be any of these things. I’m not supposed tocare.
I have zero claim on Ben.And I shouldn’t be surprised about a supermodel appearing out of thin air, because Iknewthis is the kind of life Ben leads. I’ve seen the pictures. Read the articles attaching him to dozens of women exactly like these three.
There’s just a difference in knowing it and seeing it close-up. There’s also a difference in how I felt about Ben when I googled him and how I feel about him now. Which is wild, as it hasn’t been that long. I guess being trapped on a yacht will do that, especially when a significant number of those hours were spent having him take care of me.
Leandra’s eyes shift to me, and her smile is sly. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never seen Benedict look at anyof those women, oranyoneelse for that matter, like he looks at you.”
