Caleb shifts towards me, and I glare at him to stay still. He complies.
“And what’s the verdict?”
“I would do this.”
He smiles at me.
“Seduce grumpy sea captains?”
“Art. I would paint. I would draw. I’d get the hell out of Chicago and get a little cabin in Washington where I could see the ocean every day.”
Caleb takes a moment to consider this, and his brow furrows as he evaluates my answer.
“We’ll need a dock, of course,” he says matter-of-factly. “To keep the schooner in the off-season.”
“I don’t remember inviting you to my cabin,” I tease him. “What if I want to be a lone artist surrounded by dusty old love letters and domesticated raccoons?”
“Sorry, you’ve made your bed. In New Zealand, you know, drawing a man’s portrait is as good as a marriage contract.”
I smack him in the chest with one of the unused pillows.
“Hey!”
He laughs, pushing back against me, and soon he’s on top of me again. He gives me a long, lingering kiss before pulling back and propping himself a few inches above me. From this angle, I can see a tiny white scar that runs beneath the newly-forming stubble on his chin. It makes me ache with the desire to know all of him—to stay here until I’ve explored every scar, every laugh line, every part of him he hides when he’s in uniform. But time is not a luxury I have. Not when half the occupants of this boat would be scandalized by so much as a lingering gaze between us.
So, instead, I bury my hands in his perfect curls and let myself believe that they can stay there.
21
Caleb and I fall asleep tangled in each other’s bodies, and when I wake up a few hours later, I have to extricate myself like a game of reverse twister. He doesn’t wake up when I go, and I don’t make him. Instead, I carefully creep back through the galley and down the stairs before anyone in the staterooms has any idea I’m gone.
I get back to my room and collapse onto my pillows. Did that really just happen? Even if my last relationship had about as much passion as a board meeting, I’m not exactly inexperienced—but what I just felt with Caleb was something else completely. That was the kind of sex that launches warships. The kind that makes you feel so connected, you still feel their heartbeat when you’re walls apart. I’m almost reluctant to take a shower even though, after the things Caleb just did to me, I know I need one. But I don’t want to wash the lingering smell of his aftershave off of my skin.
I turn on the water and strip off my clothes. I should be regretful, or at least filled with terror at the possibility of anyone on the ship finding out. But the only thing I feel isjoy.Iwas wrong about Caleb: he’s not stuck-up or emotionless or any of the terrible names I called him in my head.
I did it for you, Stella. For once, I wanted to be the reason you were smiling.
I step out and stare at my face in the mirror to make sure I’m not dreaming. Everything looks right… except for the dark red bruise just above my collarbone. Is that ahickey?I dig through my toiletry bag to find something to fix it, but I’ve never worn face makeup a day in my life. Unless I want to cover it with waterproof mascara, I’m SOL.
I run to my closet and search for something I can use to cover it up. But all I have are tank tops and sun dresses. Why couldn’t we be on a ski trip? The only thing I find with a collar is a velvet bathrobe with the Vela Bianca monogram.
Bathrobe it is.
“Morning!” I say as I drop down into the stool next to Jules, hoping my cheeriness hides my nervous lilt. Matthew and Steven are still sleeping, which means I have fewer people from which to hide my obvious guilt.
“Good morning, Stella!” Harry greets me as I pile some pineapple onto my plate. My sister takes one look at my wet hair and emerald green robe and narrows her eyes in suspicion.
“You never shower in the morning,” she says. I pause mid-pineapple.
“I’m tired.”True.“I thought it would help wake me up.”
“I knew you were up late. You weren’t in your room last night when I came to say goodnight.”
Shit. I know that tone. The look that says, whatever BS you’re selling, I’m not buying it. I never snuck out of the house as a teenager: I was more likely to be curled up with a book than pounding PBR’s in a friend’s basement. But no one escapes childhood without testing a few boundaries. Or, in my case, hiding my pet mouse in my sleeve for two weeks so I could take him to school.
“I was stargazing,” I cover quickly. “I couldn’t sleep for some reason.”
Some reason. You try sleeping with a six-foot-two sea god squashing you to his chest.
