“Yeah, I get that.”
I pause. “You do?”
“I’m a fighter.”
My eyes widen. Well, I knew he was something, but I didn’t pick that. Though it makes sense now. “A fighter?”
“Yeah.”
“Like a real fighter?”
He gives me a look.
“Sorry, I just...you mean like wrestling?”
“No,” he mutters. “I mean like fuckin’ fighting. MMA, mostly.”
“Damn. Are you good?”
“Champion.”
I have so many questions, like why the fuck did my father hire fighters to watch over us?
“Well, as much as I want to ask more questions, I am trying to not complete my shame by vomiting on you.”
He chuckles. “We’ll see.”
We reach my door and I fumble for the handle, managing to get it open only to knock a vase off the cabinet right beside it. Somehow, Ace catches it with ninja reflexes. He sets it back without comment. I’m rooted in place, suddenly too aware of him, of his size and the way his eyes don’t miss a thing.
“So, since you’re my security,” I say, my words less clear than I’d like. “Does that mean you have to check under my bed for monsters?”
“Trust me, if there were monsters, you’d hear them screaming. Get some sleep.”
I don’t want to. Not yet.
“What about...” I squint, and can’t remember the question, so I just lean on the door frame and let my head loll. “Do you think I’ll fall asleep and vomit and then die because we’re on a boat and I never drink?”
He gives me a long, slow look, then says, “You want me to sit and watch.”
“That’s creepy.”
Another snort. “Have it your way.”
I dare to take a step further inside, and barely make it to the edge of the bed before the room tilts, and I have to brace myself on a dresser.
“Need some help?” he asks from the doorway.
I shoot him a glare, but the effort makes me giggle. “You offering to undress me and tuck me in?”
His face doesn’t change. “I’ll tuck you in, the rest is your problem.”
“Rude,” I mumble.
Right then, the boat gives a massive, rolling heave and I tip forward, arms windmilling, and Ace has to lunge to steady me. I land against him, face pressed tight to his t-shirt, and holy shit, I inhale the faintest trace of soap, beer and ocean.
“You smell really good,” I say. He doesn’t move, his hands remain gripping my upper arms.
“You’re going to regret all this tomorrow,” he says, voice a little softer this time.
