Page 31

“It’s too complicated,” I say.
“It doesn’t have to be.” He moves closer, not touching me but close enough that I can smell his soap. “We’re two consenting adults who are attracted to each other. We acted on that attraction. Simple.”
“There’s nothing simple about this situation.”
“Only because you’re overthinking it.” His eyes search mine. “Last night, when I asked if you had regrets, you said ‘ask me tomorrow.’ Well, it’s tomorrow. Do you regret what happened?”
The honest answer is more complex than I want to admit. “I regret the complications, not the experience.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “So, the experience itself was...?”
“Don’t push your luck, Cole.”
He laughs, and I feel myself smiling too.
“Fine, I’ll take that non-answer as a positive review.” He picks up his own coffee cup. “What’s on your agenda today?”
The abrupt change of subject throws me. “Um, I was planning to review the turtle data and start drafting that part of my report.”
“Meet me for lunch first? The ship docks at Saint Lucia at noon. There’s a seafood restaurant in port that I think you’d appreciate.”
“Are the cameras coming too?” I ask, only half-joking.
“No cameras. Just lunch.”
I should say no. I should maintain professional distance and remember that one night of admittedly incredible sex doesn’t change our fundamental positions.
“Okay,” I hear myself say instead. “Lunch.”
His smile is like sunlight breaking through clouds. “I’ll meet you at the gangway at 12:30.”
Before I can react, he leans forward and places a quick kiss on my lips, then retreats to his own balcony. “Enjoy your data analysis, Dr. Bennett.”
I stand there, coffee in hand, lips tingling, wondering how I’ve lost control of this situation so completely.
After a shower, I settle on the balcony with my laptop and the turtle research. It’s genuinely impressive—comprehensive, well documented, with clear evidence of population recovery. The conservation protocols align with best practices, and the funding Ethan has provided has enabled technological monitoring that most research stations could only dream of.
It complicates my narrative. I can’t paint Cole Tech as environmental villains when they’re funding such amazing conservation work. And I can’t dismiss Ethan as a corporate greenwasher when he seems committed to this project.
My phone rings, displaying my publisher’s number. I answer with trepidation.
“Eleanor, hi.”
“Harper! Just checking in on your exposé. Social media is buzzing about you and Ethan Cole. Tell me you’re getting good dirt.”
I wince. “It’s... more nuanced than I expected. They’re doing some legitimate conservation work.”
“But the cruise ship itself? The consumption, the waste?”
“Still room for improvement,” I concede, thinking of the excessive food waste I’ve documented and the single-use plastics still in use. “But they’re implementing changes, and some of their initiatives are innovative.”
A pause from Eleanor’s end. “Harper, we sold this as an exposé, not a puff piece. The publisher wants ‘Playground of the Privileged: The Environmental Cost of Luxury Cruising,’ not ‘Rich People Trying Their Best.’”
“I understand, but I have to report what I find, not what fits a predetermined narrative.”
“Of course,” Eleanor says, though her tone suggests disappointment. “But remember, readers want drama. If everything’s sunshine and sea turtles, there’s no story.”
After we hang up, I stare at my data spreadsheets, feeling caught between my integrity and my publishers expectations. Eleanor wants environmental villains. The cruise wants good publicity. Ethan wants...