An email dinged on my phone and I quickly whipped it out of my skirt pocket to check as I walked briskly along the flat wooden boards of the docks. I squinted at the screen through my sunglasses, my heart already starting to pound. It was an email from the broker I was working with on this deal. He was letting me know it was time for me to check out the yacht, and complete my professional inspection. It was safe to go onboard. The coast was clear and the ship was ready for my tour.

I stopped for a moment to hammer out a quick, courteous reply. I clicked send and slipped the phone back into my pocket. I took a deep breath and straightened my navy-blue skirt, smoothed down my starched white shirt that was tucked in and form-fitting. I knew I looked good, even if I felt like I was about to melt into a puddle and spill into the harbor.

Keep your cool, Jillian, I thought to myself. Nobody can tell how stressed out you are, how fast your heart is racing. If you just smile and act like you’re totally at home, everyone will think you really are. Fake it ‘til you make it had always been my secret motto.

In my line of business, it was of the utmost importance that my clients believed one-hundred-percent that they could trust me. Rely on me. I helped them make huge decisions, financially and in regards to the lifestyles they wanted to lead. And even though this time I was just buying a yacht for my brother, someone who would love me no matter what, failure or success, I still felt that drive to do the best I could. I had to write down everything, record every tiny detail, no matter how trivial it might seem to a third party.

I kept moving down the docks until I reached the yacht with a name emblazoned in flashy gold lettering on the side: Mirabella. It was a gorgeous ship, even larger than most of the yachts I had bought and sold in the past. In fact, this one was of the category unceremoniously named “super yachts.” It had to have at least eight to ten rooms on it. A yacht like this was more like a house, a mansion on the waves, than just a boat. It was its own little world, complete with a full crew to staff it.

I had spent a good chunk of my adult life cavorting around on big boats, touring them, measuring them, judging them by size, price, and opulence. But nothing had ever come close to how magnificent Mirabella was. I actually gasped a little when I first stepped in front of her. The hull was a gleaming white, nearly glittering in the hot sun, and the ship loomed so tall and majestic that it nearly blocked out the sun from my view, casting me in its hulking shadow.

I was already impressed.

But I needed to keep my wits about me and not rush to such a quick positive judgment. In the past, I had occasionally come across ships that looked amazing. Fantastic. Miracles of modern engineering, marvels of high-class luxury. But when I would step inside and start really, truly sizing them up, I would usually find flaws. Just tiny details that could have been done differently or better, the kinds of interior design choices or structural integrity issues that would dock thousands, even millions off the price point. When you were dealing in such a lucrative—or potentially financially devastating—market, those little things that might seem unimportant to the average layperson really did add up fast. And today, it was my job to stay critical and objective. I couldn’t let myself be swayed by the jaw-dropping first impression Mirabella gave me. I was here to criticize her, pick her apart, determine whether or not she was truly a good fit for my brother, who was arguably the most important person in my life.

Sometimes, it almost kind of felt like I was walking into an interview room to appraise some beautiful stranger’s audition. Only instead of a young, idealistic actress, it was a boat. A really big, really expensive boat.

I walked up the gangway plank, careful not to get the stiletto heels caught in the gaps between the wood boards. As I reached the top, a young man in an immaculate white uniform rushed over to offer me his hand and a brilliant smile. I could tell he was a little nervous, but I wanted to put him at ease. I wasn’t here to judge him, by any means, but I figured he probably worried that with the sale of the yacht, he might either be out of a job or forced to relocate. I knew how scary it was, not knowing where your vocation was going to take you. And this guy was young, probably hardly older than nineteen. I gave him a big smile.

“Thank you,” I said graciously as he helped me onto the main deck.

“Of course, ma’am.” He bowed slightly.

Everything was spotlessly clean and meticulously decorated, from the brand-new wood flooring of the deck to the elegantly-designed deck chairs congregated around an industrial-metal table. Very chic. There was a pool, of course, with enticing turquoise waters and a jacuzzi bubbling.

I walked along the length of the pool, looking for architectural mistakes. A wobbly line or bulge in the poured concrete somewhere. But there was nothing troublesome to note. Everything looked perfect. Almost obnoxiously so. I had a hawk’s eye for detail, and it sometimes worried me at first when I couldn’t spot a problem. It didn’t make any sense to think that way; of course it was preferable for me to not find something wrong. But it was just the way my personality worked. In high school and college, I often took work as an editor, proofreading other students’ papers and even finding my way into the offices of lawyers, doctors, accountants, and businessmen to edit their copy and make sure it all sounded smooth. It was almost like a puzzle for me, trying to spot the issue, whether it was a missing comma or water damage to a stateroom on a yacht. It all went back to the same drive to fix things, to sniff out the bad and turn it into good.

By now, the young man in uniform had hurried back to my side and was anxiously trying to figure out how to address me. “M-ma’am?” he stammered, his tanned face blushing. “I could take you on a tour of the staterooms, if you’d like?”

I nodded. “Oh, that would be very helpful, thank you. I would appreciate that. And you can call me Ms. Hargrove. What’s your name?”

He looked relieved. “I’m Miguel Castaneda. Nice to meet you. Uh, Ms. Hargrove, would you like to follow me to the upper decks first?”

“Sure. That would be fine.”

He led me up the steps to the next deck, taking me through the hallway and showing me room by room. There was a grand recreational room with two billiards tables, a darts board, several vintage arcade games, and no less than three massive flat-screen televisions mounted on the walls, complete with attached, surprisingly elegant video gaming systems. The style of the design was sleek, almost minimalistic in its clean lines and sharp furnishings. The fixtures were all either silver or chrome, lending a sort of futuristic tone to the room.

Next up was a private movie theater room with fifteen ritzy leather seats and a wide, impressive screen. The theater was decorated with vintage movie posters of a shocking variety. Film noir, slasher films, action movies, and even some more obscure arthouse film posters flanked the walls. The ambiance of the room was cozy and cavernous, exactly the way one would hope a home theater to feel. It was the kind of place I would have loved to snuggle into with a bucket of buttered popcorn and watch a movie with some friends.

Next was a room that made my heart go all a-flutter. It was a private library, the walls lined with lovely built-in shelving, slam-packed with books. I was not supposed to be judging the content of the library, only the style, but I couldn’t help but notice that there were all kinds of antique books, old classics rubbing elbows with newer books. There was a huge, glossy window at the front of the room that overlooked the decks and the blue waters beyond. Two elaborately carved and upholstered armchairs sat by the window with a modern, sleek floor lamp between them. I was just itching to curl up in one of those chairs with a romance novel.

That was one of my biggest secrets, a guilty pleasure only my best friend knew about. And even she teased me for it on occasion. I loved romance books. The steamier, the cheesier, the better. I just wanted to read one of my favorites in peace, closed up in this beautiful library.

But then, it was time to move on to the next—the lower deck.

Miguel led me back down and into another grand hallway. We passed through a marvelous dining room adjoining the huge, perfectly-outfitted chef’s kitchen. There was a chandelier of crystal and a huge blue and silver rug that had to cost more than my entire apartment in Atlanta, and that was saying something. My apartment was not cheap.

“Could I see one of the bedrooms, please?” I asked Miguel.

He winced, which gave me pause. What could possibly be wrong with a bedroom? That was easily the most important room onboard. It was where the client, in this case Jeff, would be spending a lot of time.

“Uh, yes. Of course,” Miguel said quickly. “There’s a smaller bedroom just to the left—”

“Actually,” I interrupted with a smile, “I was hoping to see the master suite.”

Miguel’s face went a little ashen, but he couldn’t tell me no. Ah, so this was where the problem was. Surely there was some terrible design flaw, some mismatched carpeting or godawful wallpaper to contend with. Why else would he be so concerned?

He led me to the master suite. We stopped outside. “Go ahead inside, Ms. Hargrove. I-I think I might be needed on deck.”

“Oh,” I said, frowning as I put my hand on the doorknob. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll come back in a bit,” he added quickly, and nearly darted away down the hall. I turned back to the door, confused, and pushed it open.

At first, I was even more confused. The room was not a disaster. In fact, it was beautifully designed and well-maintained. The furnishings were lovely. The bed was—

Not made.

The sheets were piled and spilling off the bed as though it had just been slept in. That was odd. But I figured maybe they hadn’t gotten around to fully tidying up in here. No big deal. But then I saw a trail of clothing on the floor leading from the bed to the adjoining en suite bathroom.

That was also odd.

Then the bathroom door opened.

And out walked a naked man. I let out a shriek and jumped backward, dropping all my papers and my phone. I clapped a hand over my mouth and stared at the man. He was not even remotely embarrassed about my walking in on him. He was tall, at least a good head taller than me, and muscular. In fact, he was downright ripped. He gave me a smile, and not even a sheepish one. Steam rolled out of the bathroom behind him. His skin was glowing and dewy. He’d clearly just stepped out of the shower.

“Oh my God,” I gasped. “I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t realize—”

“No worries,” he said, not even hiding his crotch from my view. I tried my best not to glance down but, oh God. I did. I glanced down.

And holy shit, this guy was hung as hell.

In fact, I was so distracted by his massive cock that it took me a full minute to register how familiar his face was. He recognized me at exactly the same time I recognized him, the smile fading quickly from his face.

“Jillian?” he asked, frowning.

I swallowed hard. “Bruin?”

I was standing in front of my older brother’s best friend from college. And he was naked.