AllFreeNovel
Share Us
But now, with the glistening saltwater making them stand out even more, they are something else entirely. The type of legs I want wrapped around me as I—
Nope. Not going there.
She's an entitled princess with a last name that ruins any chance of that. Ever.
But even while I tell myself this, I still let my eyes travel up her body. Moving up over her flat stomach encased in the tight white shirt clinging to her skin, landing on her ample breasts, and that's when a lump forms in my throat and my heart pounds in my chest. Her pebbled nipples stand out like beacons under her shirt. I am simply a mortal unable to control my body's reactions to a pair of tits. Perfect or otherwise.
It's not like I want to rip her shirt off and see them.
Okay, I do. I so do. Instead, I force myself to keep moving upward until I'm peering at her face.
That's when I realize my error. Her eyes are hard, and her face is a mask.
“Take a picture. It will last longer,” she chides.
“Great. Say cheese and give me two thumbs-up.” I pretend to pull up my phone, and she groans in frustration. Her lips are pursed, and a small line forms between her pinched brows.
“This is my first encounter with a sea hag.” I shrug one shoulder. “A guy's gotta remember such a monumental event.”
Her bottom lip trembles, her eyes blink way too fast, and my stomach bottoms out.
Ah, hell. Is she going to cry?
That's the one thing I can't take. A crying girl is tough to watch. It's even worse when I'm the cause of it. It's not something I ever set out to do. I'm not that guy. I don't like to hurt people.
This girl has me wound tight. I'm seconds from snapping. She rubs me the wrong way, and that's not a feeling I'm used to. A woman like Mallory is hard to have empathy for.
But as the boat sputters again and the engine stops, I can't help but feel bad for her.
It's not her fault that this boat is a piece of shit and now has us stranded. It's also not her fault that we represent infants who can't act professionally.
Despite the way I acted, her assessment of this half-ass motor craft wasn't wrong.
I grew up on boats, and the second I saw this one, I knew we'd be lucky to make it to the godforsaken island. I'd have offered an alternative if I had thought there was one.
It was pretty clear from the moment I stepped off the plane that we wouldn't get luxury.
Unfortunately, the director is quite peculiar with his choices of location—along with just about everything else the man decides—but it works for him.
One movie. Every ten years. It will be a shoo-in for an Oscar, which is the only reason I'm on this damn boat right now. For any other client, on any other picture, I'd have put my foot down, but I know full well Brad would go through with his threat.
This project is too big for him to lose—for me to lose.
If this goes as planned, I'll have plenty of “Brads” on my doorstep begging for representation, and Brad's departure will no longer pose an actual threat to my career. Let him try to spread rumors, but people in this industry know my character, and they're learning his.
I'm on this boat to secure my station.
I'm also staring at a girl I truly despise and contemplating the issues with admitting I'm attracted to her.
What does it matter?
I blame evolution. My reactions to a beautiful woman—brat or not—are normal.
A sound from beside me has me pulling my focus away from Mallory and looking over at the captain.
He's mumbling curses under his breath and stomping around like an angry buffoon. He doesn't pay any attention to us as he's hitting his hands on the steering wheel, giving the impression that he's seconds away from well and truly losing his shit.
I'm about to intervene when he turns toward Mallory and stops.
He goes quiet, his mumbling fading into the distance as he inspects her.
Good lord.
The last thing we need is another weak man aboard when it comes to her.
He sees what I see. A gorgeous woman who might look even hotter drenched head to toe and covered in sea salt. Next to women wrestling in a vat of Jell-O, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the average adolescent male fantasizes about this very image. A soaked woman wearing white under a halo of sunlight raining down on her.
Except we're missing the sun.
The sky's about to open up and drench her even more. Me, too. And I will not look as good soaked through.
The more the man stares, the more uncomfortable the small area becomes.
Despite my feelings toward her, I can't help the way my fists clench by my sides as I stand abruptly. I take the few steps to where she is and stand in the way of the captain's view.
