“I thought you would never ask. Got me wasting my good sex mix tape,” he joked as he pulled me into his arms, and we grooved to his throwback Miguel playlist.
I don’t know how long we held each other and swayed, his erection a constant presence on my thigh. Yet, his arms remained wrapped around me. This was the best date I ever had.
As he took my hand to lead me down below to the bedroom, I grabbed my cell off the lounger. “I want to take a selfie of you and me.”
He frowned. “I thought I said no media.”
“This is just for me.” When he dropped my hand, I touched his forearm. “Come on, Canaan, I want something to remember this special night by. I won’t post it.”
Canaan raised an eyebrow. “No.”
“Please.” I squeezed his arm.
He stepped away from me. “Sometimes, moments are meant to be for your experiences and your memories. Everything doesn’t have to be captured in a photo or posted for the world to see. Some occasions are meant to be private. I don’t need to be in the picture. Go ahead and take it with the Atlantic skyline as your background.”
“We’re here together, and you don’t want to take a picture with me on this yacht? You don’t believe me when I tell you I won’t post it. You think this is me trying to sneak a photo for social media,” I accused rather than asked, disappointment coating my words. His silence felt like daggers in my heart. “Wait, youstillthink I have something to do with that video? I’ve kept my word with you and been your friend, yet you don’t trust me. Most of what I post are my experiences. I haven’t posted any pictures that included you without your permission.”
“Trust is hard for me,” he firmly explained.
His confirmation twisted the daggers in that much deeper. “Even harder for me, and yet, I was starting to believe I could trust you.” I tugged on the ends of the lapels of his shirt.
“Youcantrust me. Just don’t want to take a picture.” We locked gazes.
“Really? Last time I heard, trust is a two-way street.” I grabbed my clutch off the deck sofa. “Is thisreallyabout trusting me, or is it because you don’t want to seem like a real couple?”
“Fuck it. Take the picture,” he scowled.
“I don’t want a picture now. You messed up the vibe.” I tried to walk past him, but he blocked my path. “Move, Canaan.”
He grasped my upper arms. “I don’t want our night to end like this.”
“I didn’t either. Yet, here we are.” I blinked back unexpected tears. “No matter what, we will always end up here somehow.”
Canaan gave an exaggerated sigh. “And what’s that?”
“At odds. We’re in one of the sexist places in the world on this exotic yacht, and yet, I’m feeling hopeless.”
His forehead dipped, and he barked, “Hopeless? I didn’t feel like taking a stupid picture. Because I didn’t go along with what you wanted, you’re disappointed in me? I’mhopelessnow?”
I replied sadly, “I didn’t say you were hopeless. I said I feel it. Now, can we please just go to bed? Thank you for tonight, and I do mean that.”
Canaan held on a second longer, then released my arms and walked ahead of me down the stairs.
Chapter 22
Canaan
For the next few days, Kensie had become guarded again. At least this time, she still discussed her day with me and listened politely when I spoke to her about mine. However, she lacked the warmth and openness that she had previously expressed. She seemed careful about what she said to me and didn’t ask me for a picture or to do any live streams or recordings.
Kensie worked efficiently with Saraj and Dan, my financial manager back in the States, to plan travel and accommodation for her fans for my upcoming special practice. She presented the budget and the location where the guests would be staying, and I approved. She told me her goal was to keep the trip budget-friendly and to create an experience the fans would never forget. Kensie had accomplished that, and when I praised her, she smiled. Before our date, she would have enthusiastically hugged me or kissed my cheek.
On the morning of the trial race, I watched her sleep. As much as I tried to convince myself it was for the best that I didn’t need her when everything I’d worked for was coming to fruition, I felt an emptiness. A familiar emptiness similar to when my mother abandoned me. I doubted whether I had bested my time today; she would come to me with no reservations if she came to me at all.
Oh, Kensie still wanted me, though her walls seemed unbreachable. Our explosive attraction simmered beneath our polite, cordial attitudes and conversations. Unguarded while sleeping, her body still found me, and I didn’t sleep well until she was curled against me.
I could’ve kicked myself when I told her I didn’t trust her when she was becoming one of the few I did. I simply didn’t want to take a picture. That was it. No other thoughts or feelings around it. I’d never been a fan of photographs and hadn’t had many taken during my childhood or younger years. I tolerated pictures and photographers for my career and sponsors. Personally, a few photos over a year were all I ever needed, and Kensie took pictures of everything. Her food, her drinks, the pool, her feet. Anything. Some of it was for her career, but I could tell she loved capturing everything on camera. Our differences about something so minor shouldn’t matter.
Yet, her distance this week told me it did.
