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I blink in the bright sunlight and spot the short blond hair of Ilya, who’s being poured coffee by the weird little man who seems to work for the guys.
“Good morning, Miss Abby,” he says in a super-strong accent that sounds similar, but not identical to the guys’. At least to my ear.
“Oh. Um, morning,” I say looking around for everybody else.
Do they know what Bogdan and I did? And where is he, anyway?
I turn toward footsteps bounding up the stairs behind me, and almost bump into Fedor, who’s pulling his hair back into a ponytail. His eyes flash blue at me in the sunlight, and for a moment I forget to breathe.
For a split second, I’m sorry I’m leaving these guys. The yacht is magnificent, and these men, well, they’re freaking hot. But I have to be realistic. And responsible. I pushed limits the night before. Time for reality.
“Morning, Abby. Have you met our steward, Karol?” Fedor asked, gesturing toward a seat for me.
Nice manners.
“No. I mean, we saw each other last night. But haven’t really met,” I say with a polite smile. I just want to get out of there. Off the boat.
Sort of.
Karol nods his head toward me deferentially. “Miss Abby, are you ready for an espresso?”
Oh god. Why do Europeans love espresso so much? It’s so gross and bitter.
“Oh yes. Thank you. That would be great.”
I can force a little bit of that mud down my throat if it keeps everyone from thinking I’m a total hick.
I take my seat, conveniently across the table from both guys, giving me a few more moments to admire their beauty. “Thank you for inviting my friends and me last night. It was so much fun.”
Ilya nods, the overhead sun glinting off his blond hair.
I self-consciously push a bit of my own, blowing in the breeze, behind my ear, as Karol serves my espresso.
Shit. Why am I doing this to myself?
I touch the tiny cup, and it’s blasting hot, which means I can hold off for a moment or two, waiting for it to cool down.
“Where’s everybody else?” I ask casually.
Ilya waves away my question. “Not up yet,” he says simply.
Okay, then.
I look in the distance. We’re close enough to see Ibiza. Shouldn’t take long to get back to shore.
“So Abby, tell us about yourself,” Fedor says.
Karol sets down a huge tray of croissants and they smell so damn good I want to cry.
He notices me staring. “Please, Miss Abby, help yourself. These are fresh.Homemade, as you Americans say.”
I force myself to acknowledge him with a smile and thanks, even though I am dying to stuff one or two of these treats into my mouth. Turns out I forgot to have dinner the night before.
I tear apart the flaky pastry like Fedor and Ilya do, and pop small bites into my mouth, chewing slowly and carefully, savoring every bite.
Not having forgotten his question, Fedor looks at me with his eyebrows raised.
Shit, wait till he finds out how damn boring I am.
