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That’s the second time Sullivan has called me a tiger.
Nothing could seem less fitting.
I’ve never been a tiger. In fact, I don’t even say anything when someone budges me in line.
“He’s going to be suspicious,” I say as one last-ditch attempt to avoid attracting attention.
“No, he won’t.” Sullivan contradicts. “He’ll be stunned.”
An hour later,we’re aboard theKraken,Angus’ glossy black yacht that looks like something a supervillain would use to deposit nuclear warheads in Antarctica.
Angus is dressed on theme, in black silk swim trunks and a pair of shiny wrap-around shades, silver chains draped around his neck and just as many rings on his fingers.
For the second time, Sullivan makes no move to approach Angus. Instead, he slips into the crowd and starts talking to Angus’ friends. In minutes, he’s cozied up to several key players.
I watch him, confused and unnerved.
People always gravitated to the Rivas twins, but Reese was the charmer, the one everybody loved. Sullivan was moody and intimidating.
Now he’s plastered on a smile that looks almost exactly like Reese’s, and he’s chatting away like he’s running for mayor of the ocean. You’d never guess in a million years that this was the guy who got suspended six times his senior year.
I guess he really has changed. Or gotten better at hiding it.
Watching him work is impressive. He fits in better than I do, and I’ve been on this yacht a dozen times.
At least Martinique always makes me feel cool.
“Oh my god! You look amazing!” She fingers the material of the robe, which feels like it was sewn from angel’s wings.
“Thanks,” I say without thinking. “Sullivan bought it for me.”
Martinique lets out an excited squeal. “Angus said you got a boyfriend!Why didn’t you tell me?”
Of course he did, that gossip.
“We haven’t been dating that long.” I try to lie without lying too much—which, of course, is impossible.
It feels like shit fibbing to Martinique, especially when she’s so excited for me.
“Where is he?” She spins around in a circle, scanning the crowd.
“Right there.” I point.
Sullivan is standing with a group of venture capitalists. He must have made some joke because the other men laugh.
“Him?” Martinique says with unflattering disbelief.
Sullivan takes that moment to strip off his shirt so he can join the others in their swim trunks. It’s a slow-motion slap to the face—the flex and roll of muscle, the reveal of his sun-burnished skin, finished with a flick of his head as he pulls the shirt free, his thick, black mane sweeping back in the wind…
“Sweet Holy Jesus,” Martinique whispers.
All I can say is, “Yeah.”
The body that looked good under a suit should be illegal topless. In fact, it must be illegal because it’s currently killing me.
Sullivan looks like Captain America if Captain America were a lot more olive toned. Call him Captain Italy. Or Captain Spain. Where’s the name Rivas from, anyway?
“Is he, like, a model or something?” Martinique murmurs.
