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I think of last night—the decidedly non-analytical way I responded to his touch, the abandonment of thought for pure sensation.
“Not everything,” I admit.
He turns his head slightly, catching my eye from the massage table. “Good to know.”
For the rest of the massage, there is a charged silence, my hands working over his back, arms, and legs as instructed. By the time Celeste announces the end of the workshop, the air between us feels thick with tension.
As we leave the spa, Ethan leans close. “So, Dr. Bennett, was that part of your professional assessment, or purely recreational?”
“Both,” I answer. “The spa uses excessive water and imported products, but the experience itself was... educational.”
“Educational,” he repeats, looking amused. “Is that your scientific term for fun?”
“Don’t push it, Cole.”
We reach the elevator bank, and an awkward silence falls as we both realize we’re heading to the same place—our adjacent cabins.
“Any plans for the evening?” he asks as the elevator ascends.
“Data and my report,” I reply. “I need to incorporate the turtle research into my draft.”
“Sounds riveting.” He rolls his eyes.
“It is to me.” I love my job.
The elevator stops at our floor, and we walk down the hallway together. At my door, I pause, uncertain about the right way to end whatever this non-date was.
Ethan solves the dilemma by leaning in and placing a soft kiss on my cheek. “Enjoy your data, Harper.”
“Ethan,” I say before he can turn away, surprising myself. “Thank you for lunch. And... for respecting my boundaries.”
“Always.”
He starts toward his own door, then stops. “If you finish your data analysis early, I’ll be on my balcony with a bottle of wine that I think you’d appreciate. Ethically farmed grapes, of course.”
“I’ll consider it,” I reply, not quite committing.
His smile suggests he knows I’ll show up. The most irritating part is that he’s right.
Inside my cabin, I sit at the desk and force myself to focus on my work. The turtle data is impressive, and I work it into my draft. But as evening falls, my concentration starts to wear thin. I keep glancing at the balcony door, aware that just beyond it, separated by a glass partition, Ethan is waiting.
I should finish my work, and remember that in three days, this cruise ends, and I return to my real life—where Ethan Cole is a subject of my professional criticism, not my personal affection. We live in two different worlds off this boat.
I save my document, change into a sundress, and open my balcony door. Ethan is there, as promised, two glasses and a bottle of wine on the small table between the chairs. He looks up when he hears the door, and his smile makes my stomach flutter with butterflies.
“Data all analyzed?” he mocks as I take the seat beside him.
“Enough for tonight.” I accept the glass of wine he offers. “Tell me about this sustainably produced wine you were raving about.”
As he launches into an explanation of the vineyard’s organic farming and renewable energy use, I am smiling. This man is nothing like I expected when I boarded this ship. He’s complex, thoughtful, and committed to environmental improvement—even if his methods and timeline don’t always align.
More dangerously, he makes me laugh. He challenges me intellectually. And the way he looks at me makes me feel both seen and desired in a way I haven’t experienced before.
Three more days, I remind myself as we sip wine and watch the stars emerge over the Caribbean. Three days to figure out what this is, and what happens when we return to reality.
But tonight, with the gentle rock of the ship beneath us and Ethan’s voice painting pictures of vineyards and wine making, I allow myself to enjoy the moment.
Chapter Eight