The sun was blistering, the wind was warm, the sound of the water lapping at the hull made me smile.

I was lying on the deck, wearing nothing but Speedos, and Foster was resting his head on my belly. I was almost snoozing and he, like he often did, was playing with an old piece of rope, tying and untying knots. He did it with his eyes closed, and I played with his hair.

It was five years ago this week that he’d sailed into Sydney harbour and whisked me away in a fairy-tale-like fashion that stole my heart.

Well, that’s not true. He’d stolen it well before then.

I chuckled as I remembered the trip from Sydney to Cairns.

“What’s funny?” he asked.

I toyed with his hair, teasing the strands between my fingers and stroking his scalp. “Remembering Nelson’s Bay. How we only made it as far as that before we had to drop anchor.”

He chuckled, a husky rumble. “I thought we did well to make it that far.”

“My God, you made short work of me that day.”

Now he laughed. “And you loved every minute of it.”

“Every second.” I hummed. “If I think about what you did to me, I can still feel it.”

He shot me a humoured look. The rope stilled in his hand. “Want a reminder?”

“Hell, yes.”

“God. Didn’t you get enough of me this morning?”

I stroked his hair. “Never enough.”

The sun was making us drowsy.

“Oh.” I just remembered. “Aunty Kim called when you were in the shower earlier. Just wanted to say hi.”

He hummed and closed his eyes. “I’ll call her back later.” He loved it when I played with his hair, and his peaceful, sleepy demeanour made me smile. “Did you want me to make dinner reservations back on the mainland?” he asked, his voice lazy.

“Nope.” He knew what my answer would be before he even asked the question. I never wanted to go to shore when we were out here. Just us. I loved the bubble we surrounded ourselves in.

In the last five years, I’d done as he first suggested. I worked the stock market, made educated guesses at where the trends and lags would be, when to buy, when to sell. I was better at it than I ever was in mergers and acquisitions.

But I didn’t live on the boat.

I sold my apartment in Brisbane and bought an older style beach house north of Cairns. In one fell swoop, I’d gone from living sleek and sophisticated—and being bloody miserable—to a guy who rarely wore shoes and lived in an old weather-beaten house that fronted the ocean with its very own jetty. Where I could keep one eye on the world economy and one eye on the Coral Sea, looking for a sleek white yacht with a handsome skipper at the helm. And I was, without any doubt, the happiest I’d ever been.

I worked when it suited me, and I helped Foster run his private charter business. If he was making a scheduled stop on the coast, I’d meet him at any marina he moored at. When he wasn’t working, the yacht was moored and we were either at the house or on board locked away together in his cabin. But we were together two, three, sometimes four nights a week. I’d done a few jobs with him when he needed an extra pair of hands on deck, but for the most part, we worked separately. We were realists, above all else. There was no way we could work together on the yacht and live together on the yacht day in and day out and expect to last longer than a few months.

So, we worked separately, our lives otherwise intertwined at every point possible, and we were disgustingly happy.

This was our fifth anniversary, and we were taking three days to sail out to the reef and spend our time completely removed and uninterrupted. It was utterly remote and downright perfect.

“You know, I think I need a new pair of Speedos,” I mused.

He stopped making a knot and glanced up at me. “Are you trying to get me to look at your dick?”

I snorted. “No. If I wanted you to look, I’d be naked right now.”

He made a happy sound and went back to knot making, his eyes closed, going by feel. “As long as the new pair are white. And see-through when wet.”

Yes. God forbid I bought any other colour. I bought a black pair once and he hated them.

I watched him work the rope through his fingers, methodically practising, turning it into steadfast knots I couldn’t replicate, even with YouTube video instructions.

“What knot are you making?” I asked.

He looked at the rope in his hands like he was only just now seeing it, then he lifted it toward me. I took it, trying to figure out how he manipulated the different strands of rope to look like they were one. “It’s for you,” he said.

“What’s it called?” All knots had weird names, and I tried to learn them as he told me. This one was different, and it was so secure, it looked unbreakable.

He sat up and faced me, a strange look on his face. “It’s for you.”

I almost laughed, and I probably would have if it weren’t for the look on his face. Like he was both uncertain and completely sure at the same time. I sat up, our knees bent and touching. “Is it called the ‘it’s for you’ knot?”

He shook his head and laughed. “No. I made it for you. It’s called the ‘true love’s knot’ because once it’s done, and done right, it stays like that forever.”

I looked at how the rope was twisted, knotted, separate strands becoming one. “I can see that.” Sure, it was impressive, but… “Why is it for me?”

“Because I want you to marry me.”

My head jerked up, shocked. I’m sure my expression said it all. “What?”

“Marry me.” He licked his lips and swallowed hard. “I could organise some underwater snorkelling proposal or a sky-writing proposal if you’d prefer. Something full of romance and fanfare. I could take you to Paris, but…” He looked around the ocean, at the expanse of nothing but vast water, infinite skies, and us. “But this is all I need right here. Just you and forever.”

Oh my God, he was serious.

My brain short-circuited. My heart stopped beating, but I nodded. I held out the knot, the forever knot. And there, in the middle of the ocean, by the coral reef and with the islands in the distance, I was surrounded by all I’d ever need. Foster and the promise of forever. “Yes.”

He tackle-kissed me until he was lying on top of me, smiling down at me. “I think we better take this down into the cabin.”

I grinned up at him. “Will it be Foster Jenner-Knight? Or Foster Knight-Jenner.”

He kissed me with smiling lips, took my hands, and pinned them to the deck above my head. “Do you want my surname?” he asked. His eyes grew dark. He clearly liked the idea of that, very much.

“Yes. And you can have mine.”

He used his knees to spread my thighs, my hands kept tight above my head. His hips were flush with mine, his erection hard and pressing against me in all the right places. “Stuart Jenner-Knight,” he whispered. “I love the sound of that.”

I rolled my hips. “I can tell.”

He groaned, but then his eyes searched mine. “You’ll really marry me?” He let go of my hands so he could trace the side of my face.

I nodded. “Yes. I was yours for forever anyway, when you sailed into Darling Harbour and rescued me. But you made me a forever knot with an old piece of rope, so now it’s official.”

He smiled and planted a soft kiss on my lips. “I wasn’t supposed to blurt it out like that. I probably could have planned it better. But it just felt right.”

“It was perfect. I don’t need Paris or any fancy proposals in expensive restaurants or special fanfare. I just need you.”

“And so you have me, mister Stuart Jenner-Knight. Forever.”

“Yes. Forever. I have the knot to prove it.”

He laughed and kissed me again, this time longer, with more purpose. “Excuse me, Mister Foster Jenner-Knight,” I said breathily when he kissed down my jaw. “You better take me below deck and finish what you started.”

His eyes gleamed; his smile was filthy and full of promise. “Well, I am the ship’s captain,” he said, jumping up and pulling me to my feet. “And all good captains need a willing cabin boy.”

I stopped. “Can I still be a cabin boy if we’re married?”

He laughed. “You can be my cabin boy forever.”

“Even when we’re old and grey?”

He grinned. “I’ll be very disappointed if you’re not.”

“Me too,” I replied. I picked up the knot he’d made for me, leaned up on my toes and kissed him. “Now hurry up. Your cabin boy’s impatient and horny. Best not to keep him waiting.”

He laughed as he followed me below deck. He pulled the door closed, blocking out the rest of the world behind us. “How many days have we got?” he asked, walking me backwards into his cabin.

I held up the knotted rope. “We don’t have days. We have forever.”

---

The end