A six-foot-four slab of trouble that answers to Axel…
‘No, this is perfect,’ I say instead. ‘As is this.’ I hand her back the tablet and slip off the stool, readying myself for the masses, or one giant muscular mass in particular. ‘Any issues, though…’
‘I’ll be sure to find you first, but there won’t be,’ she says with the cool assurance of someone who’s seen every diva, disaster, and last-minute drama a mega-yacht can throw at her. ‘Please try and relax, Miss Stone. Let us take care of everything, it’s what we do best.’
She gives me a bright, white smile, and I do my best to soak up some of her calm by osmosis.
‘Thank you, Charlie.’
Axel
I hate these yacht pools. All gloss, no substance. You can’t get a proper lap in before you’re turning back again. But right now, I need it: the shock of cold water, the silence underneath, those few seconds where everything shuts up.
I’d like to say it’s the sun burning me up, but it ain’t.
It’s her.
Taylor. Drifting around in that flimsy bloody cover-up and a bikini that could barely pass as dental floss. It’s killing me.
I was supposed to leave her desperate last night, not give my traitorous dick a highlight reel to replay every five minutes and get high on. And high it fucking is.
For the love of all things holy…
I catch a glimpse of her through the saloon glass – sunlight catching the waves in her dark hair as it spills down her back, that sheer robe showing off everything it’s meant to hide – and I do an about turn, trying to focus on literally anything else.
Which is exactly when a trio of mini-misdemeanours come barrelling towards the pool: Lottie, Parker, and Josh.
They hit the water like human torpedoes in armbands, waves smacking me square in the chest.
‘Kids!’ Sadie launches to her feet, Josh’s dad Tristan close behind, but I wave them back. It’s fine. I wanted a distraction and got it – three times over.
Thank fuck for that.
The boys thrash and kick, laughter bouncing around thedeck, while Lottie splutters between them, curls plastered to her cheeks.
‘Easy there, Trouble.’
I scoop her up before she disappears beneath the surface, and she grips my shoulders, spitting water as she grumbles, ‘I’m not twubble.’
I sweep her hair off her face before she eats it. ‘I beg to differ.’
But she’s not listening. She’s frowning at my chest as the boys splash around us. ‘What’s that?’
I glance down as she pokes a finger into the tattoo spread across my pecs.
‘It’s an eagle.’
‘An eagle?’ Parker pipes up. ‘It looks like the chicken on Nanna Isla’s farm!’
A fucking chicken, is he for real?
Lottie leans back to get a better look, nose wrinkling. ‘That’s notta chicken, silly.’
Thank you, Lottie.
‘That’s a cock’l.’
…It’s awhat now?
