He fights that smile. “How are you doing Mrs Kenwood?”
I snort. “Big of you to think I’d take your name.”
“You’re right. I’d change mine. What’s your surname?”
“Stirling.”
“Mr Stirling,” he says, trying it out. “That makes me sound quite official.”
I smile. “You enjoy letting people think we’re together, don’t you? Is it a favourite pasttime of yours? Fake dating your female friends?”
“We’re not friends,” he says without pause.
“Ouch.”
“Friends don’t play footsie.”
I bite my bottom lip and look away. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Gus spins me again, supporting my weight, careful to make sure my balance is sound.
“Do you really live in The Cotswolds?” I ask.
“Well… I own a house there. My sister looks after it at the moment. I’m barely ever at home.”
“These great men are never at home,” I say, finding myself incredibly funny.
“I don’t understand.”
“Pfft.”
“Should I understand?”
I nod. “Yes. But don’t worry. I’ll let you off for now.”
He leans back to get a read on my face. I think he wants in on the joke but it’s one that has to be earned. He swallows and I watch his throat work and ache to kiss him there. To taste his skin. He smells so inviting.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand and leading me away from the dancefloor. I follow him, my bare feet pattering against the slick decking. He leads me down two floors where we find a quieter spot at the back of the yacht. The water is close enough from here that you can hear the peaceful slapping of it against the sides.
I’m feeling just a tad tipsy, when I lean against the railings to feel the wind rustle through my hair.
Our gazes are caught by another yacht passing by. It’s sleek, black and pretentious. We wave because it feels funny and other cruises and yachts passing have done so. The people on board this one though don’t even acknowledge us, but we carry on, laughing at ourselves being entirely fucking blanked by billionaires.
“You know, my mum humbled me so much growing up that when I first started getting money, I felt really guilty,” Gus says. “They made us talk to financial advisers. And all I could think was, why the hell are you telling me how to make that money into more money? Surely, I just, you know, get a fancier bank account? It’s like once you’ve got it, all you’re meant to do is make it into more.”
“Aww. Poor wealthy Popstar,” I mock, pouting.
He reaches over, carefully pinching the front of my dress. His fingers don’t even graze my skin, but I feel it everywhere, a small electric current rippling at the surface. I bite down hard on my tongue.
I can’t have him. For so many reasons. This can’t work.
I’m not even remotely emotionally ready for him. I was a runaway bride just over two months ago. The most I can offer him is a rebound
But the teasing thought of him on top of me, the weightof him everywhere, the feel of his hair in my hands.
Ahhhh.
As if he’s reading my mind, he steps closer, planting one hand either side of me, trapping me against the railings. “When are you going home?”
