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TWELVE

Ella

WE’RE on the smaller of Blake’s two boats and it’s the size of a starter home. Who has multiple boats in Monaco? The dock fees for just one could fund a presidential election, for fuck’s sake. I fight the urge to Google what professions I can switch to (that aren’t stripping or OnlyFans—no judgment, I just don’t have the confidence or coordination) in order to make enough money for this type of lifestyle. His boat not only has a pool table, it has a spa . Oh, yeah, and a treadmill. I enjoy a good run as much as any non-marathon running human can, but who comes out on a yacht to run ?

Blake seems relaxed sitting next to me on the end of the boat. His feet skim the top of the sea while mine dangle in the space above. The lights of Monte Carlo are small dots from the spot we’re anchored in, but the velvety sky still glitters from the dazzling display of fireworks.

To say I’m shocked Blake left the party to check on me is the understatement of the year. He’s been hyping up the event for days, telling me I can’t act like a weirdo when I see celebrities. Of course, then he bristles that I’m not rattled by him since he’s a “world champion,” but to me he’s just Blake.

Everyone else may see him as only a Formula 1 driver, but I’m getting to know him as the man who watches more documentaries in a week than the average person watches in their lifetime. The man who spends close to an hour in the hotel gift shop at each Grand Prix, picking out the perfect postcard to send his niece and nephew. The man who still has a physical newspaper delivered to his house every morning just so he can do the crossword. And he refuses to Google any answers. He’d rather leave it incomplete than “cop out and cheat.” The down-to-earth side of Blake is softening me like butter. Josie was right when she said he’s a good guy once you get past the rough exterior; he just takes time to open up.

We’ve been passing a champagne bottle back and forth for the past hour, asking each other ridiculous and arbitrary questions. I appreciate the fact that he’s not pushing me on what’s going on. I wish I could act like nothing’s wrong, but one look at me and you can tell I’m off.

I start to pass the bottle back to Blake before remembering the fact that he walked in on my private cabaret show. If he saw my dramatic reenactment of Hamilton , I will immediately throw myself overboard. I take another large gulp.

“Have you ever skinny-dipped?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts with his question.

I nod in response. There’s no need for him to know I skinny-dipped when it was pitch-black outside and there were no boys in attendance. I’ll let his imagination run wild instead.

“In that case, I dare you to skinny-dip now.”

The champagne I’ve just taken a sip of shoots out through my nose, burning as it drips down my chin. “I’m going to pass on that one. But you’re more than welcome to.” My hand waves for him to dive right in. I think I’ll keel over and die if he does, so I’m not going to encourage it, but I’m not going to discourage it either.

“You just want to see if I’m packing heat or not.”

It’s a warm night, but the smirk he gives me sends goose bumps down my arms. “False.”

“So if I stripped buck naked, you wouldn’t be at all curious?”

“Maybe.” I casually shrug despite my rapidly beating heart. “But as I’ve said, I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

“Aha!” He has a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “So you do associate my dick with pleasure!”

Without so much as a thought, I push him into the crisp, cool Mediterranean Sea. I can’t believe he actually falls in. He’s made of pure muscle; I can’t even lift a fifteen-pound dumbbell at the gym without getting sore. But I need him to stop talking about his dick, so shoving him into the water to shut him up seems wise.

His head pops up moments later, sputtering water. I collapse in a pile of giggles as he floats there with a look of pure incredulity. The laughter quickly turns into yelps as Blake tugs my legs, pulling me into the water with him. The disbelief on his face was worth it.

“You said you wanted to go swimming!” I remind him.

I’m dog-paddling like there’s a real danger of drowning even though we’re no more than ten feet away from the boat. A splash of water hits my face before Blake’s strong hands push my shoulders down, immersing me underwater once again.

“I’m no Michael Phelps!” I yell when I come up for air. “Don’t drown me.”

We’re face-to-face, our bobbing heads inches apart. Don’t look at his lips, don’t look at lips. He’s too sexy, I’m too tipsy, and we’re a little too close. If I wasn’t already wet, looking at Blake’s white dress shirt clinging to his muscles as water drips down his exposed skin would’ve done the trick.

“Are there any sports you’re good at?”

“First of all, it’s rude to assume I’m not athletic,” I chastise him. “Second of all, I won a hot-dog-eating competition when I was seven, so I have a trophy with my name on it.”

He chuckles before disappearing into the dark blue water. My brain catches up to my body and I flutter kick my way back to the boat with Blake following closely behind. I’m desperate to change out of the shirt that’s glued to my body like a second skin and am grateful to find his steward left out towels and dry clothes for us. The sweats and shirt are way too big on me, but I like baggy clothes. They’re comfortable, and after the grossly inappropriate comments on my figure at my last job … it’s a protective layer. The shirt smells like Blake—masculine and delicious.

“Do I look like a trash panda?” I point to my face. Mascara is definitely smudged under my eyes. Blake’s forehead creases as he frowns in confusion.

“Trash panda is another name for a raccoon,” I explain exasperatedly.

He lets out a low, gravelly laugh that vibrates through his chest as the two of us settle onto the sleek leather couch in his boat’s salon. A variety of food and drinks sit neatly on the coffee table in front of us, and I waste no time ripping open the bag of Tostitos. The corners of Blake’s mouth tug up. He can’t seem to get over how much I love snacks.

Theo’s been calling Blake nonstop since we stepped onto the boat and Blake’s ignored him each and every time. After call number twenty, I insist he answer his phone. What if Theo’s in danger or something? Turns out the only thing in danger is our eardrums. The music’s deafeningly loud. Blake cringes at the sound too, holding his phone away from him.

“Where the fuck are you?” Theo shouts.

“Out on the boat. What’s up?”

“Well, you need to come back.” He’s almost impossible to understand thanks to the vodka slurring his speech. “Amelie’s here. And she’s horny for you, Hollis.”

Well, that was crystal clear. I quickly slap my hand over my mouth.

“Josie should start a ‘Horny for Hollis’ trend on Instagram,” I joke quietly so only Blake can hear.

He rolls his eyes at me. “Go enjoy the party, Theo. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I tuck my knees up under me as Blake attempts to get off the phone. There’s no stopping Theo once he has an audience, but he’s not making much sense. When he finally cuts Theo off by unceremoniously hitting “end” and then turning off his phone, Blake presses his thumbs into his temples.

“Christ,” he mutters to himself.

Keeping my eyes trained on the floral arrangement opposite the couch, I work up the nerve to ask, “So why did you leave the party? Since Amelie’s so horny for you and all.”

Amelie’s probably blond and tall and has massive mango boobs. I bet she’s on the Peloton leaderboard and shops exclusively at Whole Foods, or whatever the European equivalent is, and eats only vegan, gluten-free, and keto foods. And I’m sure she can separate sex from feelings and have fun, casual one-night stands. She’s the worst and I hate her.

“Amelie is bat-shit crazy. Restraining order level,” Blake admits with a nonchalant shrug. “I’m not sure why Theo selectively forgets that part.”

My face manages to stay neutral, not giving away that I’m extremely happy Amelie is a psycho stalker instead of an Instagram baddie.

“So you left because … ”

He can’t avoid my question that easily. And I won’t let him get away with answering it with another question again.

“The party’s the same every year. Not missing much.” He shrugs before winking. “And I wanted to make sure you weren’t stealing from me.”

“Yeah, because I definitely want to steal your weird blue painting, Blake.”

He has a massive piece of so-called “art” that’s literally just a canvas painted blue. That’s it. I can finger paint something more artistically creative. He mumbles that it’s an original Rodolfo. No idea who that is, but it probably cost him more than this boat did. Maybe I’ll paint a canvas red and claim it’s a Rodolfo, too. Highly doubt he’d know the difference.

“Why’d you decide to dance in my kitchen instead of surrounding yourself with celebs?”

“I was planning on going,” I admit, “but saw on social media that some old work colleagues were there.”

I’m in such a better spot than I was a few months ago, but the thought of running into someone from PlayMedia brought on a fresh wave of emotion I wasn’t expecting. Hence chugging wine straight from the bottle and having a solo dance party. Josie offered to keep me company, but I told her to enjoy herself. At least one of us should stay in case Harry Styles does show up to the party; there was a rumor floating around.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, but I’m here if you want to talk,” Blake says softly.

Maybe five people know the real story about what happened at PlayMedia, and I’m not about to go screaming it from the rooftops. Blake and I may be friends now, but we’re not “spill your trauma” friends. Talking about it always makes me feel like I’m diving headfirst into the past. Part of the reason I even took this job was for a change of pace, a fresh start. New York is too small for Connor’s big, lying mouth.

I don’t realize I let out a heavy sigh until Blake asks me, “Are you okay?”

His eyes are wide with worry and he’s fidgeting, tapping his foot against the ground at an increasingly aggressive speed. His brown eyes are filled with such open sincerity.

“Yeah.” I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “It’s a long story.”

“We’re in the middle of the Mediterranean at two in the morning,” he points out. “I have nothing but time for a long story.”

Well played, Mr. Hollis. “Fair enough.”

“So, what happened?” he asks calmly.

“You know Trash Talk ?”

Blake nods. “Yeah, that guy Brixton hosts it. He’s some exNFL player’s son, right?”

I’m not surprised. Everyone knows Trash Talk . There’s a reason it has over one million listeners an episode and has been ranked the number one sports podcast for three years in a row.

“Yep, that’s the one. Connor thrives on this chauvinistic attitude of praising toxic masculinity and feeding into the stereotype of over-sexualized, submissive women.” The acidity of his name burns my tongue. “I never worked with him when I was just writing, but when I started podcasting, we were together almost every day. He helped produce my show.”

There’s a special place in hell for guys like him. Host of Trash Talk , producer of Coffee with Champions , and director of my nightmares.

“One time, we were a chair short in a meeting and he told me I could just sit on his face. Not his lap … his face. And everyone just laughed like it was an okay thing to say.”

My sigh is weighted, holding uncomfortable memories. I don’t tell him about the time Connor told me I have dick-sucking lips and asked if I’d give him a blowjob to relieve his stress. Or when he told me he thought of me while fucking some chick because we wear the same perfume. I can write a book longer than Blake’s biography with all the examples of harassment I experienced at PlayMedia. The constant belittling and demeaning attitude got emotionally exhausting very quickly.

“I finally worked up the nerve to go to HR,” I admit with a shaky voice. “Connor found out I reported him for harassment and long story short … I didn’t stay much more after that.”

“Did he touch you?” Blake asks, his voice tightly wound. He’s flexing his fingers as if fighting the urge to punch a wall.

“He sexually assaulted a girl I worked with last year.” A lump rises in my throat as I say the words. It’s not a lie, but it’s also not the whole truth. It’s easier to talk about if I don’t have to admit that the girl was me. I unconsciously bring my fingers up to my neck, remembering the feeling of his hand closed around it, squeezing the air out. The surprise of his actions mixed with the intense pressure left me completely shocked. Deep breath, Ella.

Blake rubs his forehead, massaging away the stress crease. “What happened?”

“I don’t know the details,” I tell him, choking out the words. “The police didn’t press charges, though.”

“Bloody fuckin’ hell.” I watch his face harden; jaw locking, the muscles ticking. “That’s bullshit. And work didn’t do anything either? They just let him get away with it?”

“Do you know how much money his podcast generates for PlayMedia? In advertising revenue alone he pulls fifty thousand dollars per episode and he does two episodes a week.” The noise that comes out of me sounds like a strangled laugh, covered in sarcasm and dipped in insincerity. “He’s connected and powerful in the industry. No one wants to mess with him—or his dad.”

My podcast may have been successful, but it is nowhere near that successful. Not many podcasts are.

“Christ, Ella,” Blake mutters. “That’s awful. I’m assuming she left the company?”

“Mm-hmm.” I exhale deeply. I don’t know why the hell I told him all of that. This may be the first time I’ve talked about it without crying, though, so that’s a win. “I’m happy I don’t have to dread going to work, but I’m pissed I was forced to give up a job I really loved, you know? I finally felt like I found my thing with the podcast.”

The frightening force of his glare relaxes when he looks at me. “I’m so sorry you dealt with all of that, love.”

“It’s okay.” I’m willing my words into existence. Manifestation or whatever. “I mean, no, it’s not, but I’m okay. Really.”

“Is that why you carry pepper spray?”

My eyes widen in surprise. Looks like Blake’s more observant than I gave him credit for. I nod before changing the subject.

Blake doesn’t mention or bring up what I told him for the rest of our time in Monaco. When I wake up on my last day there, I see a text from him saying he left me something.

I skip to the kitchen, praying he left me a yummy treat from the bakery down the street. Chef Nicola has been bringing us different pastries from there every morning, but it’s her day off. Their blueberry muffins are heaven on Earth. Instead, I find a beautifully wrapped box with a giant bow on it. Definitely no baked goods in here. I eagerly tear the pale-yellow wrapping paper off. Inside, I find a portable podcasting set. It has all the essentials: a microphone and stand, headphones, a shock mount, a mixer, a pop filter, and an audio interface. I read the attached note, the sound of my heartbeat pulsing in my ears.

Ella,

I won’t be your co-host, but I do hope you continue doing what you love. Fuck anyone who tries to take that away from you.

xx,

Blake

P.S. I lied when I said your podcast wasn’t the best. I’ve listened to every episode.

The work I’ve put into Blake’s book may be good so far, but how much I’m starting to like him? That’s one plot twist I didn’t see coming.