‘Cam, I’m not a nun. I’ve had . . . arrangements with people over the years.’
‘And do these people know they’re just “arrangements”?’ he asked, looking at me with a mixture of . . .what?
‘I always tell them, but—’
‘They don’t get the memo?’ he said, cutting me off.
‘Exactly.’ I clicked my fingers at him.
‘So basically you have relationships but don’t actually think you’re having relationships?’
‘They are not relationships.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Why do people keep insisting they are? Besides, relationships never work.’ I started walking again.
‘We’d work,’ Cam said, which obviously brought me to another grinding halt. ‘We’ve been together, what, almost a week, and this is honestly the best relationship I’ve ever had.’
‘It isn’t a real relationship.’
‘It isn’t fake either. And you know it,’ he said quietly.
‘You’re very presumptuous.’
‘No, I’m not. You’ve never been able to hide your feelings from me. Even when you try. Not very Vulcan of you.’
‘Well, I did tell you I’m a Klingon, and if you carry on talking like this, I might have to challenge you to—’
‘A veS,’ he said suddenly. I blinked at him in surprise. ‘Told you I got intoStar Trekafter you left.’
‘So I see.’ I was taken aback that he knew the Klingon word for battle.
‘Like I said, it reminded me of you.’
‘P’tak,’ I said, a Klingon swear word, to break the moment.
Cam laughed, and I started walking again. This time he didn’t jog to keep up, but he did whistle again.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said. ‘It’s a nice boat. I get it.’
‘That’s not what I’m whistling at this time,’ he said, and his tone told me exactly what he was referring to. But I decided I wanted to hear him say it out loud anyway, so I turned around and faced him.
‘And what exactlyareyou whistling at?’
He smiled. ‘Anyone ever told you what a hot ass you have?’
I smiled, swung around again and kept walking. ‘Yes, many people.’
‘God, dagger to my heart. How many?’
‘Like I said, Cam, I’m not a nun. Trust me, you’re not the last person who saw it.’
‘But I bet I’m the last person who spanked it.’ His words brought me to yet another abrupt halt. ‘The last person who left a red handprint across it. Tell me, were the others able to keep up with you? Did they know how to handle you, know how you like it a little . . .rough?’
That word sent a thrill through me. The memory of that night, the little marks we left on each other, as if we’d been wrestling while we fucked. I thought of being sarcastic, saying something flippant. But we seemed to be getting beyond that.
‘No. They didn’t keep up with me, and no, they didn’t know I like it . . .rough,’ I said, and then carried on walking.
We finally reached the yacht, and I was surprised to see it full of people. Music, laughter and the sound of high-end crystal champagne glasses clinking together filled the air. Amber flitted between groups, her camera phone out, smiling, shooting TikToks. Who were all these people anyway?
Victor was playing the loud, gregarious host, shaking hands, slapping backs and telling stories with a politician’s grin and a pompous voice. Where the hell had all these people come from? Surely he hadn’t befriended the entire island in a matter of days? It didn’t matter though, because lots of people made it easier for us. Easier to slip away unnoticed.
