“Like a promotion.”I slide my hands along her jaw, tilting her face up to mine.“New titles.For both of us.I’m thinking ‘girlfriend’ and ‘boyfriend.’”My mouth curves.“Comes with a full benefits package—breakfast in bed, parakeet collision insurance.”My voice drops, heat threading through it.“And unlimited paid time off.Preferably spent in my bed.With me.”
Her laugh catches on a tear.“That might be the strangest job description I’ve ever heard.”
“I can sweeten the offer, if you’d like.Unlimited wine nights.Occasional meddling grandmother visits.And a CEO on board who will spend every damn day making sure you know you’re essential.”
She bites her lip, like she’s weighing it.“Do I get medical?”
“Only if you count me carrying you to bed when you’re tired.”
“Vacation days?”
“Mandatory.Preferably somewhere with fewer birds.”
Her smile tilts sly.“And what about the contract?”
“Contract?”
She nods, clearly enjoying herself.“I called Claire a few days ago to confirm my revised terms.I negotiated a little hazard pay for parakeet-related injuries, two personal days per month for gelato emergencies, and an ironclad clause stating that my employer will not avoid me when things get complicated.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes.“Claire agreed to that?”
“She said, and I quote, ‘About damn time.’Why do you think I was packing?”She peers around at the boxes.“All this is coming on the yacht.”
“Ah.Of course.But on one condition,” I say, pulling her closer.“Your new title goes on all official documents: Chief Executive of My Heart.”
Her laugh is the exact sound I’ve been missing for days.“That’s ridiculous.”
“And accurate.”
She grins, tears and mischief all tangled together.“Fine.I accept the position.”
She kisses me—warm.Deep.
When she pulls back, her forehead rests against mine.“Kinda feels like I’m your boss now, West.”
I grin, mentally finalizing the deal in a way that feels better than any contract I’ve ever signed.“I can live with that.”
12
NETWORKING EVENT, NECKING OPTIONAL
MIA
Four and a half weeks after the Cannes launch turned WestWard Maritime’s luxury charter division into the most talked-about venture in Mediterranean yachting, I’m standing on the sundeck ofElysium—Connor and Ariana’s 250-foot floating palace, courtesy of Roarke’s fleet—trying to convince myself this is my life now.
The early October evening is absurdly perfect.
A dusky pink horizon bleeds into the endless blue of the Mediterranean, the air warm but threaded with a sea breeze that smells like salt and champagne.
Strings of Edison bulbs crisscross above the open-air lounge, casting a golden glow over guests lounging on white leather sectionals, flutes in hand.
Below deck, there’s a glass-bottomed pool, a cinema, and a spiral staircase carved from Italian marble.
Above us, the party spills from the aft deck into an open dance floor where a jazz quartet is just giving way to a DJ.
Ariana’s signature touch.
Impossibly chic.Effortlessly expensive.
