Page 102 of In Your Wake

She shakes her head, running both hands down her face, then looks at me, her eyes wet and filled with accusation. “Then why was I the only one you cut out of your life?”

This pierces my heart, and I dip my head in shame. “I’m sorry for that. I figured it was better that way.”

With a sniffle, she nods. “Guess it was.”

She reaches around me and tugs on the door, but it doesn’t open.

“What the hell?” She turns the lock. Still, the door won’t budge.

After a few more tries, I offer to help. “Here. Let me.”

“No, I got it,” she insists.

“Can you please let me try?”

She huffs, moving aside, and I fiddle with the lock, but the door is obviously jammed. I drop my forehead against it, a sneaking suspicion filling my mind.

Fucking Spencer.

A chuckle comes out, one that rises from deep inside.

“This isn’t funny,” she says.

“It’s a little funny.” I skate my gaze over her bikini-clad body. “Any chance you’ve got your phone tucked away in there somewhere?”

“What do you think?” she answers, giving her chest and ass a quick tap-down. “How about you?”

I hesitate, then shake my head, rubbing my left eyebrow when it twitches. “Nope.”

With a low grunt, she shoves me aside and thumps on the door, screaming for help.

The boat slices through the water. The motor is loud but soothing, and the music is on above-deck. “No one will hear you. Don’t worry. Someone will come by eventually.”

Taunted by Maxine’s smooth shoulder, her lightly bronzed, freckled skin like a beacon, I caress it with my fingers.

She shuts her eyes. “Don’t,” she whispers, then slips out of my reach, but continues to bang on the door.

“We had something real back then, didn’t we?”

Her shoulders fall, and her long exhale is so miserable it shreds my heart, but she keeps her eyes ahead. “I thought we did.”

A sudden lightness floods my chest. “I know we have a lot of baggage, but—”

“Baggage?” she interrupts. “We don’t have baggage, Mitch. We have fucking cargo. Massive loads of cargo.” She grabs the knob, jiggling and tugging, then she smashes the door with her shoulder as if her tiny frame could break through the solid mahogany.

“Stop it, Max. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I need to get out of here.” Panic consumes her, along with an unrecognizable worry in her eyes.

I move up behind her. “Max, quit it.”

Only she doesn’t. She relentlessly punches the door, breathing hard. I slam my hands against the door, framing her between my arms, then lower my lips to her temple.

“Stop,” I order, an unrecognizable heat in my voice.

Her back presses against my chest with each of her deep breaths.

“Back off, Mitch,” she hisses, but I don’t move.