I woke up on the bathroom floor and noticed two things. My body hurt, all over. Like I’d been hit by a truck. And I was wearing a floatation belt and nothing else. A floatation belt?

Slowly, recognition came back to me.

Sex, Stuart, laughing, eating… oysters.

My stomach rolled again, though I didn’t vomit. I didn’t think I could.

Then I remembered. Vomiting and vomiting, being sick and feeling like death warmed over. Worse than death. I remembered wishing for death. I would have welcomed it.

I sat up, every muscle protesting. My stomach and ribs hurt in the way they hurt after being violently ill for hours. My back and hips hurt, most likely from sleeping on the floor.

There was a half a bottle of Lucozade on the floor next to me, cushions from the table seat all around the floor.

What the hell?

Then I remembered Stuart wiping my face, asking if I felt okay, his look of true concern.

Stuart.

I got to my feet, feeling a little seedy and very sore but otherwise okay. I’d definitely felt better, but I’d survive. I wrapped a towel around my waist, opened the door, and looked into his cabin. The bed was unmade but empty, so I quickly pulled on some shorts, then found the lounge and galley were empty too. Things looked a little strewn, but my first concern was Stuart.

Where was he?

The door to the cockpit was shut, so I opened it and went up the stairs. The sky was blue, water was calm, and from where the sun sat barely over the horizon, I’d guess it was barely half six in the morning. There was no Stuart though… and then I noticed the island.

We weren’t where we were supposed to be.

The last thing I remember was being on the east side of the island. When we went to my cabin yesterday, we were definitely on the east side of the island, away from people and prying eyes. We’d spent hours in bed, but we were definitely on the east side of Low Island, and now we were in the inlet?

What the…?

“Stuart?” I called out. He wasn’t swimming off the back of the yacht. The ladder wasn’t down. “Stuart!” With my heart in my throat, I raced below deck and threw open the two closed cabin doors, and there he was… in my bed.

Words would never describe the relief I felt.

He sat up, bleary-eyed, and tried to get up off the bed. “What’s wrong? Is Foster okay?” Then he blinked and stopped, one foot on the floor. He saw me and sagged. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey,” I replied. Then I noticed the floatation belt on the floor, the pile of wet towels beside it. “What happened?”

“You got food poisoning,” he said, sitting back on the bed, scrubbing both hands over his face, then knuckled his eyes before giving me a tired smile. “But you look much better. What time is it? How do you feel?”

“I feel… I don’t know how I feel. I meant, what happened? Why are we in the inlet?”

“There was a storm,” he said, frowning. “It was bad. I didn’t know what else to do, and I remembered you said the inlet would be safer.”

“So you sailed? My yacht?” I felt nauseous again; that had nothing to do with eating bad seafood.

“You were on the floor,” he said, a hurt look on his face. “A shade of green no person should be. I was fucking stressed and scared, and I didn’t know what else to do!” He shot out of bed and went to walk past me.

I grabbed his arm. “Stop. I’m not mad.”

He turned to look at me, but the defensive set of his jaw hadn’t lessened at all.

“I’m shocked,” I admitted. “And sorry. I can’t believe you did that.”

He pulled his arm free. “I didn’t have much choice. It was either that or the rescue helicopter—”

“The rescue helicopter?” I was sure my eyes almost bugged out of my head.

“You were green. On the floor. There was a huge storm, and I thought we were going to capsize. They radioed for you. I didn’t call them. I didn’t even know how to speak with all the over this, over that bullshit.”

He obviously thought I was still pissed at him, but I was just trying to get my head around it all. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Hey. You sailed!”

Eventually he smiled, the tension between us easing. “And I put the belt on you in case we went overboard.”

I slid my hand down his arm to his fingers and gave them a squeeze. I hadn’t missed what he said before, I was just trying to catch up. “You were scared.”

“Petrified.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispered.

We both knew that wasn’t true. I was responsible for his well-being out here, and I’d failed. Epically.

A wave of weariness dropped over me, and my stomach twisted with nausea, real nausea this time. “I need to sit down,” I said. I undid the belt, and pulled it off.

“Go shower,” he suggested. “It’ll make you feel better. I’ll make you some black tea.”

“Will you tell me everything then?” I asked.

He nodded. “I think we can expect a visit from the Coast Guard boat. At least, they said they’d call around last night when I told them I’d made it to the inlet.”

I nodded. “I’m really sorry you had to go through that alone.”

He gave me a smile that didn’t sit right on his face. “Go shower. I’ll put the kettle on. Then you can go over your boat to see what damage I did to it.”

“Damage?”

He shrugged and turned to the sink, busying himself with the kettle.

He was right about the shower. It made me feel so much better. Human, almost. But he was wrong about the damage. There was none. Everything was perfect. Better than perfect. He’d probably prevented damage by sailing us around the island.

He stood on the deck, staring at the trees, a little perplexed. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“How can there be no damage? I was expecting trees down or stripped bare.”

I rubbed his arm. “They suffer cyclones out here and bounce right back.”

He afforded me a small smile. “And the boat?”

“She’s perfect. Thank you.”

“What are you thanking me for?”

“For saving my yacht. For saving us. For looking after me. For being as scared as hell but being brave enough to do it anyway.”

“I just did what anyone would do,” he mumbled.

“No, you did what few people could do. Stuart.” I waited for him to look at me. “I can’t remember much about last night. None of the storm. But I do seem to remember being sick as hell and seeing your face, taking care of me, wiping my face, making me drink.” I gave him a smile. “Thank you. Not many people would have done that either.”

“I was worried for you,” he said gently. Then his eyes met mine, and that rare vulnerability was back. “I was shit scared.”

I slid my hand around his neck and pulled him against me. “You did real good, Stu. And you know what?” I pulled back and held his arm so he had to look at me. “You said before you weren’t brave enough to change your life. Well, you just proved that you are.”

He made a face with a look in his eyes I couldn’t quite identify. Then he seemed to change tack. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“White Knight, the name of your yacht…” He almost smiled. “I didn’t give it much thought, but the Coast Guard guy kept repeating it. I get that it’s your name, but does it mean what I think it does?”

I smiled. “If you’re thinking it means a friendly corporate takeover that outbids the hostile takeover of a black knight, you’d be correct.”

He nodded slowly. “I thought so.”

“My days of corporate hostility are over. It seemed fitting.”

“It is.” He swallowed hard, then asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Not great. But better than I was. With thanks to you.” I took his hand and threaded our fingers. It was somehow, despite all the sex and kissing we’d done, one of our most intimate moments. “I better put a call through to the Coast Guard.”

He nodded. “Yeah. And apologise for my lack of knowledge on protocol.”

“Were they really gonna come out?”

He shrugged and made a thoughtful face. “Think so. How’d they know where we were anyway?”

“Live tracking. I’m registered, and they were probably just giving me a cautionary call, seeing the storm coming and our beacon not moving.”

He sighed. “Well, I’m glad. Kinda felt very alone out here last night.” He looked out across the picturesque island, calm and beautiful as it was. “I can’t believe it’s the same place.”

I lifted his hand to my lips and kissed first his knuckles, then the palm of a hand. “Thank you. For everything you did. I always knew you were listening when I was telling you how to sail and what to do, but I didn’t think you’d need it.”

“Neither did I.”

There was a quietness to him, and I was unsure of the cause of it. Was he still shaken from last night? Or was he angry? Did he think me irresponsible? Did he want to leave? “So,” I hedged. “Still got one more day. Did you want to head back to Cairns early?”

He frowned. “Why? Are you still feeling sick?”

“No, I just thought you might have had enough excitement for one day to last you a while.”

“To last me forever,” he added. But then he took in a deep breath and gave me half a smile. “I don’t want to go back early.”

I don’t want to go back at all followed in my mind, and I hoped he’d say it. But there was only silence. Was he on the same page? Did he feel what I felt? Before I could ask, he pulled on my hand and led me to the stairs.

“Come on. Let’s get you that tea, and you can call the Coast Guard before they come looking for us.”

The call to the Coast Guard was brief but informative. It was a Category 2 storm, not super dangerous by any means, but Stuart had navigated and sailed, by himself, in the dark, alone. Driving rain, blowing winds, high swells. I don’t think he realised the extent of his actions. Would we have been in any danger if he’d not sailed us into the protected inlet? Impossible to tell, but it was likely.

He’d done the right thing. He’d done a brave thing.

“Oh,” I spoke into the mouthpiece. “Mr Jenner sends his apologies for not knowing radio protocol. Over.”

The Coast Guard’s response was a happy sound. “Make sure you teach him if he’s gonna be sailing some more. And tell him he did real good. Over.”

I smiled at Stuart, who was sitting at the table and hearing the entire conversation. “I will. Over and out.”

I hung the two-way receiver in its cradle and went to him. He’d made black tea and a piece of plain toast. “Did you want to try and eat?”

My stomach rolled and I shook my head. “Not yet. I’ll take the tea, though.”

Things were quiet between us, not entirely in a good way, but not in a bad way either. It was like things needed to be said, the air needed to be cleared. “I owe you a lot,” I started. “For last night. For looking after me and sailing out of the storm. That really did take guts. I know you’re not good with personal compliments, but I’m really proud of you.”

He blushed, and although he didn’t say anything in response, he gave the smallest of smiles. Then, in typical Stuart form, he changed the subject. “So, I have one more day. One more night…”

I sipped my tea and waited to see how my stomach would react. “What did you want to do?”

“I want to do nothing,” he replied in almost a whisper. “I want to sit up on deck and not miss a minute of the view, the sun.”

He didn’t want to miss a minute today because he was leaving tomorrow. And suddenly the tea was a bad idea. I pushed it away and tried to smile for him. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

“With you,” he added, meeting my eyes. “I want to sit with you. And not miss a minute with you.”

My heart banged against my ribs. “I want that too.”

He smiled sadly, then brightened as if he had to make himself. “Then I’ll go get changed. The white Speedos it is.”

I laughed despite feeling under the weather and heavy-hearted.

While he changed and went up to the deck, I cleaned the bathroom and disinfected what I could. Cleaning where I’d been ill made me feel a bit better, so I took some crackers and a fresh bottle of Lucozade, and when I found him upstairs, he was sprawled face down on a towel, sunning himself to a golden bronze.

“Wondered where you were,” he mumbled, his eyes still closed.

I sat beside him, then lay on my side so I could study his face. “You’re really beautiful,” I said, as gentle as the breeze.

His lips curled into a smile; his eyelids opened slowly. “As are you.”

“You’ve seen me at my worst,” I said. “Last night, violently ill. While stark naked. Hardly beautiful.”

He snorted out a laugh and rolled onto his side, our bodies, our faces, just a few inches apart. He trailed his fingers through the hair at my temple. “Do you feel better?”

I nodded. “A little. Not sure I’ll be up for any last-day sex marathons though. Sorry.”

He searched my eyes and eventually said, “I don’t mind. I just want this. To be here with you, like this.”

And that is exactly how we stayed. He rolled into me, shuffling until he could use my arm as his pillow, and he snoozed. Given he’d had such an awful night, I doubted he’d slept much, so I didn’t mind at all. It gave me time to relish the quiet, the unspoken, the closeness. Him in my arms in the warmth of the sun.

Then later when the sun became too hot, we swam in the cool water of the inlet. I only went in briefly, but I sat at the edge of the deck with my feet in the water and watched him. After that, we sat on the bench seat in the cockpit with me leaning against the end and him between my legs, his back to my chest, so I could kiss the top of his head, hold him in my arms.

And that was how we spent his last full day. Always touching, always close.

Unfortunately, we had to go back to the mainland before sunset. The plan would be to stay up near Port Douglas, then head down to Cairns in the morning. I asked him if he wanted to be the one to sail back to the coast, but he quickly declined. He sat with me while I manned the wheel, his hand on my leg instead.

Our original plan had been to tuck in between Wentworth Reef and Port Douglas, and we could dock if he wanted to go to a restaurant on the mainland. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to get off the yacht.

He had to feel the same as me. He had to. He needed to touch me, to be near me, like he knew our time was almost over and he could barely stand it. Even if he couldn’t say it, his actions spoke the loudest.

By dinner time, I could stomach dry toast and tea, which we ate in the cockpit. There were other boats around, not too close, but Stuart didn’t seem to mind now. He didn’t even seem to notice. He simply planted himself back in my arms and we watched the sunset over the water.

Our last one.

Our last night.

And even as darkness fell, neither of us moved. “I don’t want this to end,” I whispered, followed by a kiss above his ear.

“Me either,” he replied, making my blood sing and my heart thump.

Surely he had to hear it hammering in my chest…

“Let’s go to bed,” he murmured, getting to his feet and pulling me up by the hand. We closed up the cabin and went into his room, where he stripped out of his Speedos. His cock was full, and although my body reacted, I just wasn’t sure I could. “Stuart, I…”

He smiled as he slid into bed naked. “We don’t have to do anything,” he said, patting the bed beside him. “I just want to be with you.”

I stripped off and turned off the lights, then joined him in bed. He slid into my side, the way magnets do, with his head in the crook of my arm.

I wanted to tell him to stay. I wanted to tell him to quit his job, his old life, and stay with me.

I wanted to tell him how I felt.

But as I searched for the right words, his breathing evened out and he slept. I drew him in close and wrapped my arms around him, and even though he couldn’t hear me, or maybe because he couldn’t hear me, I said the words anyway. “I’m falling in love with you.”

I woke up feeling so much better. And I woke up with Stuart’s arse pressed hard against my cock. Maybe that was the reason I felt so good, but either way, it was an extremely pleasant way of waking up.

The sky was barely light outside, so I knew it was early, and I ran my hand up over his hip. “Morning,” he murmured, still sleepy.

I kissed the back of his head and my spine curled involuntarily, pressing my hips hard and hot against him. “Morning.”

Then I remembered it was his last day, and I froze.

“I leave today,” he whispered like he knew where my mind had gone.

I kissed his shoulder. “I know.”

He pushed his arse back. “One last time,” he said gruffly. “Please.”

A shudder coursed through me, and he groaned low in his throat.

“Stay right here,” I replied. I rolled over to the bedside, quickly finding what I needed. I got myself ready, then him. Slick fingers found his hole and he arched onto me.

“No,” he whined. “I need you. Inside me. Just do it.”

“You’re not ready,” I replied, but he lifted his leg, reached behind to grab my cock, and guided me inside him.

I breached him slowly, and he arched his back, giving me better access, and I slid in. “Oh fuck, Stuart,” I breathed, trying to stem the urgency, the desire to ram into him.

I gripped his hip and gently bit his shoulder, and he cried out, arching some more. “Foster, please. I want to feel it for days. Make me feel it for days.”

Oh fuck.

So I gripped a little harder and pushed in deeper. He moaned, long and low, and he began to stroke himself.

“Move in me,” he begged. “Fuck me.”

So I did.

I pushed him onto his stomach, rolling on top of him, and before he could complain, I rammed into him. Just how he liked it. Just how he needed it.

I drew out a little and pushed in deeper, all the way. He gripped the sheets, crying out as I buried my entire length inside him. But he lifted his arse and he moved his hips and I ploughed into him again.

I slid my arms under his chest and held onto him as I gave him exactly what he wanted. Then I stopped, letting him savour the feeling of being owned, and I kissed the back of his neck to tell him not to leave me. And I thrust in deep, nipping the skin of his shoulder to beg him to stay.

And he came in response, shuddering underneath me, squeezing my cock and milking my orgasm from my bones, my soul. I came so hard, holding him, buried so deep inside him.

But I couldn’t find the words. Speech escaped me, fear engulfed me. And everything I wanted to say went unsaid.

We sailed down the coast, meandering on a slow wind and avoiding a conversation we needed to have. A conversation neither one of us were keen to start. He disappeared below deck while I concentrated on sailing, and it gave me time to mentally prepare the words I needed to say.

When he came up the stairs, his steps slow, I knew this was it. I met his gaze and took a deep breath, ready to put my heart on the line.

“I’m packed,” he said.

I blinked. “You’re what?”

“I’m all packed up. Ready to go.” He let out a slow breath. “My flight’s at twelve.”

My hand fell from the wheel and I stared, stupefied. “Or not.”

“What?”

My heart was in my throat and I could barely swallow around it. “Or you could not go.” My speech wasn’t going to plan. Visions in my head of me giving him some romantic spiel about following his heart and choosing me were going horribly wrong. “You could stay.”

He gave me a sad smile. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

He ran his hand through his hair and looked out to sea. “I have a life there. I can’t just walk away.”

“Yes you can. You’re not happy there. You said so. You said you wanted to stay here. With me.”

“I said I wish I could.” His sad smile turned to one of pity. “But it was just a silly dream. It wasn’t real.”

Those words stung like he’d slapped me. “It was real for me.”

“Foster,” he started, reaching for me.

I pulled my arm away. “Forget it. I didn’t realise none of this was real for you. I should have, and I was an idiot. Sorry.”

“Foster, that’s not what I meant—”

“I think it’s pretty clear what you meant.” I looked to the bow of the yacht and raised my chin. This conversation was done. I was done. I’d foolishly let my guard down, and look where it got me.

“I just—”

“We’ll be coming into port soon,” I spoke over him.

He was a smart man; he took the hint. He sat on the bench seat, not close to me like he usually did, and he pulled his phone from his pocket. He switched it on, and in the seconds that followed, the beeps started. And they didn’t stop.

Messages. Emails. Missed calls.

His shoulders sagged more and more with every sound. He just sat there and stared at the screen as the phone continued to beep, and then it actually rang. But he didn’t answer it. He just sat there and stared at it.

And a glimmer of hope took hold in my chest.

He didn’t want that life. He hated it, and it was killing him. Like it had almost killed me.

“You gonna answer that?” I asked over the ringing phone.

His gaze met mine and his eyes shone like he was fighting tears. But there was an edge to his jaw and his nostrils flared, and he shot up from his seat and was gone, down the stairs, before I could blink.

“Stuart,” I called out, but a cabin door slamming was his only reply.

I couldn’t leave the wheel. We were coming into port, there was a lot of traffic, and I needed to be at the helm. And I tried to see reason, and I tried to see things from his perspective. I’d been in his shoes, after all. I knew exactly what he was going through.

But I just got more pissed off the closer to port we got.

I knew exactly what kind of person it took to do the job he did, and it took stubbornness, ego, and defiance. And I had all three in spades. If he thought he could out-manoeuvre me, he was wrong.

If he wanted to be gone, then so be it. I pulled the mainsail in, kicked over the engine, and sailed into the harbour.

It was busy, as always, and that pissed me off too.

There were boats, cruisers, businesses, all going about their days like nothing was wrong. On land, there were people about without a care in the world, walking, some jogging, some strolling along with dogs or pushing prams. Palm trees swayed like my world wasn’t ending.

Like my heart wasn’t breaking.

I moored the yacht and waited for him to come up. If he was getting off this boat, he could damn well look me in the eye as he did it.

Eventually, after what felt like forever, he came into the cockpit, dressed in proper shorts and a shirt, duffle bag in hand. My God, he’s really leaving.

I didn’t even try to hide the anger in my voice. “I didn’t think you’d fold.”

“Fold?”

“Like a pack of fucking cards. I thought you were a man of integrity who believed in himself and could make ballsy decisions and stand his ground. But apparently I was wrong.”

Instant anger flared in his eyes, and he pointed his finger at me. “You don’t get to judge me. You don’t get to say what’s right for me. I have an entire life back in Brisbane. People who depend on me.”

“Bullshit. You have a boss that would replace you before the ink on your resignation letter was dry. You have guys that you meet with to scratch a physical itch. If it’s not you they get it with, they’ll just find someone else. Just like you would.”

His nostrils flared. “Just like I did, you mean?”

“What we had was more than that, and you know it.”

He threw his hands up, frustration winning out. “What do you want me to say? That I’ll quit my job and move up here to be with you? Do you think we’d get some fairy tale ending, sail off into the sunset together? This isn’t a fucking Disney movie, Foster.”

“I’m acutely aware of that, Stuart. And I never expected you to want me. I’m not fucking blind. You’re a young hotshot financier, and I’m a washed-up guy who couldn’t hack it. So no, I never expected you to want me, but I did expect you to make a stand.”

“A stand for what?” he cried.

God, is he fucking blind? “For the life you want. Not the life you feel obliged to live. You only get one life, and you’re not happy in yours. Make the change. Quit. You don’t have to move up here, though I’d love it if you did. Just do whatever makes you happy.”

He stared for the longest time. His phone beeped, message after message, and when it rang, he looked at the screen. “Fuck!” he growled in frustration. “I need to take this.”

“Yeah, okay. I get it,” I mumbled, the fight in me gone. My entire mental speech had gone so very wrong, but in the end, it didn’t matter. It was over. He was going to leave, and I was going to let him. I couldn’t very well make him stay.

He answered the call. “Stuart Jenner… Yes, certainly. Can you just hold on for one second and you’ll have my undivided attention… Thanks.” He put the phone to his chest and held out his hand for me to shake. “Foster, I need to go.”

Shaking hands? After everything we’d done together?

I didn’t think so.

I looked at his hand, not even trying to hide how offended I was. His face fell and he lowered his hand. “I was never any good at goodbyes,” he whispered.

I wanted to hold him. I wanted to crush him against me, feel every hill and valley of his body against mine, where he fit so right. I wanted to kiss him one more time… But instead, I took a step back and made it easy for him.

He gave a nod. “Foster… Thank you for everything. I had the best two weeks… of my life. I’ll never forget…” He swallowed hard. “Thank you. I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you thought…”

I nodded back, determined not to let my emotions show. “Goodbye, Stuart.”

He collected his bag and put the phone back to his ear as he walked off the jetty. I stood there in the blistering sun and warm tropical winds feeling cold and heavy. I watched him get into a taxi, and I watched him drive away, his phone still to his ear. He didn’t look back. He didn’t even wave.

So that was really it.

He was gone.

I went back on board my yacht, completed an all-systems check, filled in logbooks, then stripped the beds, emptied bins, cleaned and sterilised everything. Like I always did after every job. Mechanically. Without feeling. Numb.

Then I set about getting it ready for the next lot of clients, due to arrive in two days. Apparently, I had two couples from Japan booked in for a three-day cruise. Just a short one this time, not two weeks. I made a mental note to tell the head office I’d rather not do long jobs any more. Nothing over a week, I decided. And never with one client.

It was too personal, too intimate.

I was too invested.

I received the particulars list from the head office for the next job, including food requirements, and I put a grocery order in to be delivered first thing in the morning of our departure.

I’d had crazy visions of Stuart turning up on the jetty, running in like some stupid movie, telling me he couldn’t board the plane. Telling me he couldn’t leave; he wanted to be with me.

But he didn’t.

And as my work was all done and the sun set, the sky grew dark, I knew he was really gone.

I was really alone.

Despite the noise of the harbour, the noise of the marina, the voices, the birds, I’d never felt more alone. I took the bottle of tequila and sat at my dining table. Before Stuart, I’d relished the silence. Now it was the last thing I wanted.

I poured myself a shot, but it didn’t taste the same.

I needed to lick salt off his skin, to bite lemon from his mouth for it to ever taste the same again.

When my phone buzzed with a text message, my heart leapt. Was it him? Did he stay?

I saw his name and butterflies flooded my stomach.

I’m home. I wish I wasn’t.

I’m leaving for Sydney in the morning. I wish I wasn’t.

I’m sorry for how things ended.

I wish I was as brave as you.

I could be the real me with you, for the first time in my life.

I will never forget you.

Every time I see a sunset or a sunrise, I’ll think of you. A beach, a boat, a bottle of tequila. People in love.

I will think of you.

---

My heart squeezed to the point of pain. Angry tears, heartbroken tears filled my eyes, and I threw my phone at the fucking wall.

Fuck him.

Fuck him for coming here, for making me realise what I’m missing. But most of all, fuck him for leaving.

I wouldn’t reply. I couldn’t. It didn’t change anything.

Two days later, I met my new clients on the jetty in the harbour, like I always did. They were very nice, very polite, always nodding at me, always smiling.

But they didn’t challenge me, not like Stuart. They didn’t pick up after themselves, not like Stuart. They didn’t talk to me for hours, they didn’t make me laugh, they didn’t make me feel anything, not like Stuart.

The sunset didn’t look the same.

The sunrise didn’t have the same endless-possibility feel.

My yacht, my home wasn’t the same.

The sun, the wind, the ocean weren’t the same.

Then it struck me with the clarity of a squeeze of my heart, that it wasn’t true. Everything was exactly the same. Everything was as it should be. The thing that was different was me.