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“I meant about us.”
I meet his eyes. “No regrets. Confusion about what happens next, yes. But no regrets.”
His smile is soft, it makes my heart stutter. “Good.”
Between courses, our conversation flows, touching on our childhoods, our education, our professional journeys—the kind of getting-to-know-you exchange that normally precedes physical intimacy rather than follows it. It strikes me we’ve done everything in reverse—professional antagonism, followed by fake relationship, followed by real physical intimacy, and only now the personal connection most couples build first.
“What are you thinking?” Ethan asks as dessert is served.
“That we’ve done this all ass-backward,” I admit, the wine making me more candid than usual. “Most people talk first, then kiss, then sleep together, then fight.”
“We’re not most people.” His thumb traces circles on my skin. “I knew your opinions before I knew how you take your coffee.”
“And now?”
“Now I know how you sound when you come, how you look first thing in the morning, and that you secretly enjoy romantic stargazing despite your cynicism about manufactured couples’ activities.”
I feel my cheeks heat at his blunt assessment. “They are cheesy, and awkward.”
“Still,” he counters, his voice dropping lower. “There’s so much more I want to learn about you, Harper.”
The intensity in his blue eyes makes my breath catch. This isn’t just about physical attraction anymore.
“Like what?” I ask, heart racing.
“Like whether you’d consider continuing this—us—after tomorrow. When we’re back in the real world.”
And there it is—the question that’s been hovering unspoken between us. What happens when the cruise ends, and we return to our normal lives? When he’s the CEO of Cole Tech and I’m the environmental scientist critiquing his company’s practices?
“It would be complicated,” I say, stating the obvious. “No cheesy organized fake-dates.”
“Most worthwhile things are complicated, and not fake.”
“Your board members would hate it.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“My colleagues would think I’d gone soft.”
“Possibly at first,” he concedes. “Until they realize it hasn’t changed you.”
“You sound like you’ve thought this through,” I observe.
“Haven’t you?”
I have, of course. More than I want to admit. Imagining dinners in actual restaurants, debates over environmental policy in his apartment, waking up together without the cruise itinerary telling us what to do. Wondering if what feels so significant within the bubble of this ship could survive in the real world, where he’s a billionaire and I am not.
“Yes,” I admit. “I have.”
“And?”
I take a deep breath, terrified but wanting to be honest. “And I think I’d like to try. Even if there are complications, and professional awkwardness. Even if I have absolutely no idea how it would work.”
The smile that transforms his face makes my confession worth the risk. “That’s all I’m asking for, Harper. A chance to try.”
“But,” I continue, holding up a hand, “my write up on this trip, remains honest and uninfluenced. My professional critique of Cole Tech practices is not going away. No special treatment.”
“I wouldn’t respect you if you offered it,” he says seriously. “Maybe in the bedroom, we can have some special treatment.” He winks.