I release a dry laugh. “You’re telling me.”
She lets me ride out the fake humor for a beat before lifting a tote stretched to the brim from somewhere at her side, along with a garment bag. “I brought your things.”
I inch closer and lean toward her, grabbing the offerings. “Thanks.” I glance inside the tote, buying a few seconds of silence to maintain my equilibrium. There are pajamas, cotton panties, face wash, a toothbrush, and a few basic items of makeup.
“Want to tell me what the hell is going on?” she asks.
I sigh. Shrug.
I don’t want to lie to her. For starters, she’d call bullshit before I even opened my mouth. But it’s not like I can tell her the truth. “I needed a time-out.”
She scrunches her nose. “Unprompted? On ayacht?”
I cringe. “It’s safe to say my new role and Dad’s health scare have me acting out of character.”
She doesn’t look like she’s buying it, but she doesn’t say anything.
“I’m okay, Quinn. I’m sorry that you felt the need to come all the way out here.”
“How could I not?” She levels me with an exaggerated look of incredulity. “First of all, youneverask for help, let alone for something so random. Then I deliberately baited you by saying something as verbally criminal as ‘corporate slay’ and you didn’t call me on it.”
I chuckle, but the humor doesn’t stick. “I had a stomach full of wine by that stage.”
“I always assumed you could be tripping on mushrooms while hooked up to a tequila IV and still not let that verbiage slip from my vocabulary without you issuing a formal cease and desist. I thought you were sounding a silent alarm.”
“No,” I say quietly. “Just battling exhaustion while drunk.”
“And you’re sober now?”
“God, no. But I’m on the fast track to a hangover. I fell asleep waiting for my bag to arrive, and now my brain feels like it’s being cleaved in two.”
Her face pinches. I can’t tell if it’s empathy or that unnerving sixth sense tuning in. Her pattern recognition and emotional acuity make her a human lie detector.
“I’m sorry for worrying you.” I juggle the garment bag and tote in my hands. “Everything’s just… new. And clearly, I’m not acclimating well. Being out here is the first step in fixing things.”
She nods absentmindedly and averts her gaze, absorbing theRequiem’s monstrous size casually. “Whose yacht?”
I stiffen, the question too direct for me not to panic.
I try to think. To scramble. But her gaze returns to mine.
Fuck.
I let out a slow, measured breath. “It’s Raffael Cavallo’s.”
Her face collapses. “Why the hell would you?—”
“It’s complicated,” I cut in. “And I don’t want to get into it while alcohol is still fogging my frontal lobe. But the crux of the situation is that my power play was shortsighted?—”
“Is Raffael here?” she demands.
I don’t answer.
Her jaw slackens. “Isla?—”
“It’s fine.” I implore her with a look. “Dad is furious with me. And Raffael is being… gracious in allowing me to stay on board while we figure out a way to clean up my mess.”
Okay, so that’s a fucking lie. A big one.
