He’s still holding my arm, staring at me closely. “Fuck, sorry, man.” Understanding dawns across his features, and he pulls his hand back like I’ve burned him. “Right. You live together. Your sister. Of course you’d smell like her.”
He shakes his head, almost laughing at himself, but there’s something in his expression. Something that appears almost like longing mixed with frustration.
Then he’s walking away, muttering something under his breath, and I’m left standing there trying to remember how to breathe.
Just great. Perfect. Exactly what I needed.
Maybe going on the boat today is a terrible idea.
I should fake being sick. Claim food poisoning. Run away to a different country and start a new life where I’m not constantly lying to people I’m developing feelings for.
But I don’t because I’m an idiot who apparently enjoys torturing herself.
I keep strolling toward the charter boats, forcing one foot in front of the other. Slater is standing on the deck of the largest boat, talking to someone. Men in expensive jackets, clearly clients, standing near the bow, chatting with Slater about something while he nods and gestures toward the fishing equipment.
I peer closer, trying to get a better look at their faces as I climb up onto the deck, and my stomach clenches with sudden dread.
No. It can’t be.
But as I get nearer, as the angle changes and I see one of the men clearly, ice floods through my veins.
“Ash,” Slater states, turning toward me with that a professional smile he obviously uses for clients. “Let me introduce you to our guests today. They’ve booked a private fishing charter.”
He gestures to the two men, and I force myself to look at them even though every instinct is screaming at me to sneer.
“This is Dr. Langston Reed and his business associate, Rex Anderson. They run a popular radio show.”
Reed steps forward, hand extended, and I see him clearly now in the morning sunlight. Mid-fifties, silver hair perfectly styled in a way that probably requires a professional. Button-up shirt and jeans under his designer jacket. Confident smile and cold blue eyes. The kind of man who’s used to being the most important person in any room and expects everyone else to acknowledge it.
“The True Bond Hour,” Reed states, his voice smooth, every syllable emphasized. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
I can only stare at the outstretched hand, my vision narrowing, my chest tight.
Because the devil who is against everything I stand for with my radio show, the man who believes Omegas should be submissive and controlled and trained like pets, the person I’ve spent years fighting against with every anonymous broadcast, is standing right in front of me.
Expecting me to shake his hand.
Expecting me to smile and be professional and spend the next several hours trapped on a boat with him.
And I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to survive this without exposing myself or committing murder.
17
SLATER
TheMistrunnercuts through the cold Atlantic waters like she was born to do it, and I feel that familiar satisfaction settle in my chest.
This is one of our newer boats. A fifty-two-foot sportfishing yacht that can comfortably handle twelve passengers plus crew. Twin diesel engines that purr. State-of-the-art fish finder and navigation equipment, covered aft deck with premium fishing stations, indoor salon with leather seating, and a full galley. And up here on the flybridge where I’m standing, commanding the wheel, I’ve got a three-sixty view of everything.
The ocean is choppy today but manageable. Winter fishing isn’t for the faint of heart, but it’s when you can catch some of the best species if you know where to look. Striped bass are still active in these waters. Atlantic cod if we’re lucky. Maybe some pollock or haddock. The key is knowing the falls-offs, the structure, the places where the fish congregate when the temperature drops.
And I know these waters better than I know my own reflection. So I steer us toward a spot about three miles out where a natural reef creates the perfect hunting ground. The GPS confirms what I already know, what my gut has been telling me since we left the harbor.
Down below on the aft deck, Jasper is setting up the fishing stations. He’s wearing the standard Wilde Charters uniform—our logo stitched across the chest of his navy blue T-shirt, cargo pants that can handle getting soaked and fish-slimed. Same outfit I’m wearing.
I don’t know much about our guests today beyond what was in the booking. Dr. Langston Reed and his associate, Rex Anderson. Some kind of radio personality. Apparently they do programming about—what was it?—making real men or some Alpha superiority bullshit like that.
Make up anything and slap a price tag on it, and people will pay. Story as old as time.
