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“Thanks.”
“Of course.”
He rubs his forehead. “Are you ever gonna tell me your name?”
Five
Luke
I smile—or try to—but I think it comes off smirky.
“What do you have to hide?” My artist asks it like he’s goading me, and maybe he is.
You have no idea.
I have a swallow of our shared water and stretch out beside him again. I’m still mostly hard, but I can fight it if that’s the price that I have to pay to be near him a little longer.
“What kind of work do you do?” He runs his fingers into his hair, still propping his cheek in his palm. “C’mon, you’ve gotta give me something.”
“Oh, I think I have.”
He laughs, reaching out to swipe at my pec. “How old are you, dude? Can you tell me that at least?”
“How old are you?”
He gives me a teasing smile. “Surprised you didn’t read it on your phone while I was bleeding in the water.”
“Sorry.” I reach toward his head, my fingers curling as I try to keep from touching him. I have to swallow before I’m able to ask, “How’s it feeling?”
“It’s okay.” He shuts his eyes for a few heartbeats. I’m surprised to find he looks a little pained. Then he opens them and searches my face. His handsome features are as soft as his voice when he says, “I’m twenty-five.”
I guessed that right. “A twenty-five-year-old artist. What are you best at—what sort of art?”
“I’m mostly a sculptor. But I do murals sometimes too.” His words are quiet, as if he’s telling me a secret—though of course he’s not.
“The big stuff,” I tease.
He snickers.
“Are you any good?”
“You’ll have to look and decide.” He holds my gaze as he sits partway up—to shove me. “You’re a dick, you know that?”
It takes every ounce of self-control I have to keep from shoving him back. “That’s not what I’m known for.”
“I call bullshit.”
I laugh. “Believe it.”
“Then tell me what you do.” He lifts his chin a little. With his damp hair falling around his swarthy face, he looks like a pirate prince.
“I’m…in the entertainment industry.”
Fully upright now, he leans slightly toward me. “What do you do in the entertainment industry? Have I seen you in on TV?”
My stomach drops. “Have you?” I manage.
“I don’t think I know you.” His brows narrow.
I grin—phony. “You don’t. I’m on the finance side.” It’s not untrue.
He frowns. “Like for movies?”
“Media and…other projects.”
“That what bought this yacht?”
“No.” I give him a truth. “My family has had money for a long time.” My ancestor was a railroad magnate, making his fortune alongside Cornelius Vanderbilt. I don’t dare share that fact, though. It’s far too revealing.
He lifts a brow. “Must be nice.”
“Not the case for you, I take it.”
“Mom and I were poor as shit when I was a kid. She did everything she could for me. But we weren’t going to the yacht club.”
“And now?”
“You ask a lot of questions for someone who won’t give a fuckin’ name.” But he’s grinning as he shrugs. “I guess it’s pretty good. It has its ups and downs. Making a living off my stuff, though, so that’s something.” He reaches for the tray and takes a croissant, bites and chews. His eyes are on the duvet, then on my face. I wish I knew him well enough to know how he feels when he looks like this: blank-faced, with that little notch between his brows. “You come down here a lot?” He asks it almost cautiously.
“Not really.”
“Must be pretty busy with a job like that.”
“I have a lot of people that depend on me.”
I can’t keep this conversation going. Even now, I feel…evasive. Dishonest. Vance polishes off his croissant, and I turn away from him again. My heart beats wildly as I turn the bedside lamp off.
Adrenaline trills through me. This was stupid. So, so stupid.
For a long moment, it’s quiet in the darkened room. I wonder why I did this. Why here, and why now? There was opportunity, but there’s been opportunity before; I didn’t take it. Why did I lose my self-control with him?
“I’m not getting a name, huh?” His voice is a rumble.
I lie back against the pillows, pull the sheet over my legs. I feel ill thinking of what might happen if he finds out who I am. The second he steps off my yacht, he becomes the worst kind of risk to me.
Thinking of yourself first, my conscience taunts.
I turn onto my side, bury my face in the crook of my arm, trying to get my breath. I rub my fingers roughly over my scalp, and I feel him scoot closer. His chest brushes my back as he drapes a heavy arm around me. “Think I’m gonna call you Captain. You okay with that?”
When I don’t answer, his fingers knead my shoulder…trace my spine. His hand is gentle. Careful.
