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He waits while I open it and riffle through for sunscreen.

A scrap of black lace falls out onto the deck, and he picks up the panties with one finger. “Care to explain?”

My heart stops. I grab the panties out of his hand and stuff them back into the bag. “They’re called underwear.”

“Lace,” he corrects.

“A woman can wear lingerie for herself.”

“But you don’t. You wear T-shirts and cotton knickers.”

My jaw drops, and he cocks his head.

“No, I think this means you’ve decided you respect me. Or you did, before today.”

I shield my eyes, staring up into his gorgeous face.

I want his hard mouth on mine, those strong hands touching me. But if we do that, I want to know I’m what he wants.

Even it’s only for a night.

“You can’t buy me with a boat,” I murmur.

“Wasn’t trying to.” Harrison leans closer, smooth and determined.

He stops when our lips are an inch apart, not meeting. I suck in a breath that’s salt air and him.

“I know you’re young,” he says. “I’m giving you space because it’s your birthday. But whatever shit thoughts have been going through your head? I promise they don’t change what’s between you and me.”

The next second, he’s belowdecks, my bag in hand, and I stare after him until my friends call my name.

17

HARRISON

When the yacht docks at Formentera, I’m still in the master cabin taking steadying breaths and willing my gut to unknot.

This day hasn’t gone the way I planned. Rae was supposed to see the yacht and her friends and fall at my feet.

I’ve never met a woman who wasn’t swayed by a gift either expensive or heartfelt. This one was fucking both. Yet before getting on this ship, she looked at me as if she would rather spend this weekend with anyone else.

Even though the chemistry between us scorches hot enough to burn through the shiny white hull of this boat.

The vibration of my phone on the bed next to me does nothing to calm my restlessness.

“What?” I bark into the speaker.

“How’s your weekend away?” Leni asks.

I inhale, straightening to stare in the mirror across from the bed. “Not as advertised.”

“Christian wants to invite you for a private dinner. Apparently, he lost your cell number, so he called me at the club.”

The time I spent with Christian’s daughter yesterday, playing attentive host to her flirtations, only reinforced that I’m not interested in a pretty young face. Once, I would’ve entertained such a flirtation. A few dates, some lingering looks, and she would’ve been telling her father to give me the club for free.

Now, I have no appetite to play the game. It feels not only tired and pointless but wrong. Since when did I start caring about people I barely know?

“He told me to tell you he’s inviting Mischa too.”