And I make a decision.
Tomorrow, I'm telling Victor everything. Tomorrow, I'm confessing, giving him the run-down about my deal with FoodFirst from top to bottom.
Feeling resolute, I climb into bed still wearing my dress and stare at the ceiling of the guest cabin. And listening to the gentle sound of waves against the hull, I finally let myself cry.
Because tomorrow I might lose everything. My job. My career. Victor.
But tonight? Tonight he's mine.
And that's going to have to be enough.
19
YACHT TO KNOW BETTER
VICTOR
The next morning, the sun is barely up before I'm standing in the galley kitchen of a catamaran off the coast of Santa Barbara, staring at a coffee maker like it holds the answers to questions I shouldn't be asking.
It's been approximately eight hours since I asked Harper Beaumont to be my girlfriend on the deck of this boat. Eight hours since she said yes. Eight hours since I walked her to her cabin, left her at the door like a gentleman, and proceeded to have the worst night of sleep in recent memory.
The November sun off the California coast is the stuff made of dreams, and I feel like I’m living in one.
It’s a dream to be in the same vicinity as the woman who’s been inching her way into my heart.
And it’s also a nightmare.
Because the ocean beneath us may be calm and deceptively peaceful.
But I am not.
Because I spent the entire night in my cabin, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Harper sleeping twenty feet away.
Thinking about how easy it would be to walk down that hallway and turn that doorknob. How easy it would be to slide into bed beside her, put my arms around her, and finish what we started in the presidential suite at the Bellagio.
I didn't do it.
Because I'm a gentleman. Because she asked me to take things slow. Because despite being married to her for a month, we're "dating" now, which means rules and boundaries and not giving in to every impulse my body is screaming at me to follow.
The coffee maker beeps, and I pour myself a cup, leaning against the counter, as I remind myself of the agenda I mentally crafted this morning.
One: Maintain Control.
Two: Be the CEO.
Three: Don't think about Harper in that lavender dress.
Three and a half: Don't think about the way she looked at me when I asked her to be mine.
Three and three quarters: Don't think about the fact that she's probably still asleep in a cabin twenty feet away, wearing God knows what, and I could just?—
My phone buzzes on the counter.
I grab it, grateful for the distraction.
ROMAN: Heard you punched your brother in the face. Please tell me this is true.
I almost smile despite everything.
