His hand brushes the small of my back as he guides me toward the gleaming white catamaran bobbing gently in the water. "The captain assures me this will be the perfect evening for a sail," he says, his voice low near my ear. "Clear skies, gentle breeze."
I nod, too aware of his touch to form coherent thoughts. The captain welcomes us aboard with a wide smile, explaining safety procedures and the evening's route while we listen with polite attention.
As we cast off, moving away from the dock into the open water, I can't help but wonder what tonight might bring. With Alexander Kingsley, I've learned to expect the unexpected—and to crave whatever comes next.
As the catamaran slices through turquoise water, the twin hulls create a gentle rocking rhythm. I stand at the bow, hair whipping around my face as we pick up speed, the late afternoon sun warming my skin. Alexander stands behind me, not touching me but close enough that I can feel him there.
This definitely doesn't feel like research. This feels like something I'd imagined in girlhood dreams about romance—the kind of fantasy I'd long since abandoned for more practical aspirations.
"First time on a catamaran?" The captain's voice carries over the sound of water and wind. He's a sun-weathered local named Roger with laugh lines etched deep around his eyes and an easy smile that suggests he genuinely loves his job.
"Yes, sir," I call back, unable to keep the delight from my voice.
"Then you're in for a treat, Ms. Montclair." He gestures toward the horizon. "We'll head out to that point, then circle back as the sun sets. Best view in Antigua."
Alexander moves beside me, his arm brushing against mine. "Roger’s company comes highly recommended."
"Better than those tourist traps," Roger laughs, adjusting the sail with practiced ease. "Mr. Kingsley asked for authentic, and authentic is what you'll get."
I glance at Alexander, wondering when he found time to research sailing companies and make these arrangements. The thought that he put personal effort into planning this evening sends a warm flutter through my chest.
As we settle into the sail, Roger points out landmarks and shares bits of island history. Alexander listens with the same focused attention he gives to business meetings, occasionally asking questions that reveal he's genuinely interested, not just being polite.
"I've prepared a little something below deck," Roger announces after we've been sailing for about half an hour. "Feel free to help yourselves whenever you're ready."
Alexander guides me to the netted lounge area at the front of the boat where Roger has laid out what can only be described as a feast—a wooden board overflowing with cheeses, tropical fruits, and fresh seafood, accompanied by an ice bucket holding a bottle of champagne.
"This is incredible," I say as Alexander pours two glasses of champagne.
"It'll do," he replies, but there's a softness to his expression that tells me he's pleased by my reaction. He hands me a glass, our fingers brushing in the exchange. "To the project," he says, raising his glass slightly.
I tilt my head. "Is that really what we're toasting?"
His eyes darken slightly, but his lips curve into that almost-smile. "To unexpected pleasures then."
We clink glasses and sip. The champagne is crisp and perfect, tiny bubbles dancing on my tongue. We sit side by side on the cushioned netting, our bodies swaying with the gentle motion of the boat. Not quite touching, but close enough that the slightest shift would bring us together.
"Have you traveled much?" Alexander asks, selecting a slice of mango from the platter.
"Not like this," I admit. "I've been to Europe a few times for design inspiration. Paris, Milan, Barcelona. But always working, and always on a budget."
He nods, considering this. "Travel changes when it's not constrained by money."
"Is that your polite way of saying everything's better when you're rich?" I ask with a small laugh.
A genuine smile breaks through his usual reserve. "Something like that."
As we eat, he tells me about places he's been—a private island in the Maldives where the water is so clear you can see straight to the bottom even at twenty feet deep. A hidden ryokan in the Japanese mountains where the hot spring baths overlook ancient forests. A coastal villa in Greece where he watched dolphins play at sunrise.
"Last year I chartered a yacht through the Greek islands," he says, refilling our glasses. "Two weeks exploring places you can only reach by water. Tiny villages where the fishermen still usemethods passed down for generations. Beaches with sand so fine it feels like powder beneath your feet."
I close my eyes briefly, trying to imagine it. Not just the places, but being there with him. Waking up in some luxurious cabin, stepping out onto a private deck to find Alexander waiting with coffee, his hair tousled from sleep. Swimming in crystal waters, his strong arms pulling me against him as waves lap around us. Exploring ancient ruins hand in hand, returning to shared quarters at the end of the day.
These fantasies are dangerous, I know. This thing between us has parameters—unspoken but clear. It began in Antigua and will likely end here too. Yet I can't stop my mind from wandering into impossible futures.
"Perhaps you'll see it someday," he says, misreading my silence for simple wistfulness about travel.
I open my eyes to find him watching me with that intensity that makes my breath catch. "Perhaps," I echo, not trusting myself to say more.
