How the conversation between us flirted around sex, I’ll never know. Foster was sexy as hell—the sun had kissed his skin, bleached the tips of his hair. Tanned, sand-coloured hair and eyes as blue as the sky above us. He had a deep voice, a warm laugh, and hands that looked strong. He was barefoot, wore tan cargo shorts and a blue shirt with a Tropic Heat logo. He looked as sleek and polished as his luxury yacht yet as free and wild as the coast he worked on.

It was an interesting combination. Like I said, a sexy-as-hell combination.

I’d wondered how these twelve days would go, just me and the skipper, and I worried it could be awkward. But from what I could tell, given it had only been a few hours, I thought we might get along just fine.

I hadn’t realised I might ever want to learn a single thing about sailing until he mentioned it. But it was like a challenge, and if there was anything guaranteed to interest me, it was learning new and challenging things. He showed me the boom, the mainsail, the headsail or jib, the sail cover, the lines, and the rigging. “Lines? Aren’t they just ropes?”

He laughed. “Nope. Nautical terms are different. Do you want the technical reason it’s not called a rope, or do you not really care?”

“Technical term.”

He cocked his head a little. I think he liked my direct answer. “Ropes are what lines are made of, and a coiled rope is unassigned a specific job. It’s just rope. But lines have a specific purpose. Anchor line or dock line. And the line assigned to pull up the mainsail, or the main as we call it, is called the halyard.”

“Nautical terms are confusing. Like port side and stern. I mean, who made that shit up?”

He laughed. “I guess that’s what happened in the Middle Ages when sailors all around the world needed a common language.”

I almost snorted. “True. I guess I didn’t think of it like that.”

He stepped around the yacht like he was on dry land, familiar with every inch of it. And where I was a little unsteady and uncertain, he moved with it, fluid and gentle, like he was an extension of the yacht, of the ocean.

He showed me the GPS, how the dual steering wheels worked, how to kick over the engine, how to drop anchor. “Everything’s electric on this yacht,” he explained. “For the price of her, so it should be.” He smiled when he said that.

“I’d hate to think what this yacht cost,” I mused.

“Well, it’s my house and office,” he added, running his hand along the white edge of the cabin housing. I mean, coach housing. Ugh, God. I’d never learn the terminology.

“Your house?”

“Sure. I live on board.”

I stared at him. “This is everything you own? No house, no other belongings?”

My blunt questions didn’t offend him. He just smiled wider. “This is everything I need. Believe me, I’ve had the apartments, cars, expensive suits, every hi-tech gadget available. I was happy to leave it behind.”

I turned his words over in my head. I was happy to leave it behind. God, if only. “Wow.”

He stared at me for a long while before giving me a sympathetic smile. “How about that swim?”

I let out a slow breath. “Sounds really good.”

“Reckon you can hoist the main?”

“On my own? Have you lost your mind?”

He laughed at my expression. “Come on, I’ll do it. You watch for next time.”

He managed it with as much effort as breathing, talking as he did it. “When I was a kid, I’d have to work the lines and sails manually. Now I just press a button for most of them. I can manage the sails from the cockpit. A necessity considering I’m doing it all single-handed.”

I watched everything he did. “Did you always sail? Even as a kid?”

“My dad sailed out of Rushcutters.”

“Sydney?”

He nodded. “Born and bred.”

“How long have you been doing this for?”

“Six years.” He flashed me a winning smile as he tightened the rope… line… halyard. Whatever. And soon enough, the sail was billowing in the breeze, and we began to move. “You ready for this?” he asked, moving quickly, adeptly, back to the seat that spanned the width of the boat, and took one of the steering wheels.

I clambered to join him with what felt like all the grace of an elephant to his gazelle. “Here, take the wheel,” he said.

“Shit.” I did as he asked. The wheel itself was huge and sleek wrapped with fine leather so it wouldn’t get slippery.

“Relax. It’s just like driving a car. Kind of.” Then he shot me a look. “You can drive a car, right?”

I laughed at that. “Yeah, of course.”

And he was right. Once I relaxed a little, I began to actually enjoy it. The wind, the cruising speed. He helped me steer it a little—because it wasn’t like driving a car at all—and soon enough, we rounded a headland and found the small private beach he mentioned earlier. “Oh, wow,” I murmured.

It was stunning. Absolutely stunning. The whitest sand, blue-green water, palm trees, and a tropical forest.

He brushed past me, hoisted himself up onto the deck to check something, then came back to the cockpit and had the mainsail in in no time at all. He made everything look so easy. Then he was back and tapped me on the knee. “Scoot over.”

I slid into the corner and he sat beside me, steering the boat as we drifted into the inlet seamlessly. When he’d found a spot he deemed perfect, he let me drop anchor. Which was pressing a button, but still. I got to drop anchor.

I was grinning like a kid in a lolly shop, and he chuckled when he looked at me. “It’s pretty cool, yeah?”

“It’s amazing.” I took in the scenery, 360 degrees of tropical perfection. “I need better words than wow and amazing.”

He laughed. “You packed your swimming gear?”

“Oh, of course.”

I went down to my room and changed into my swimmers and remembered I’d only packed a pair of white Speedos. I’d thought I’d be sunbathing with Jason, and he’d always appreciated my arse in the bare minimum. I now regretted not packing board shorts. I pulled out all I’d packed and had nothing but cargos and golf shorts. I couldn’t very well wear them swimming.

Fuck.

With an almighty sigh, I changed into the Speedos, adjusted my dick, grabbed a towel, wrapped it around my waist, and went back up into the cockpit. Foster was adjusting something at the back of the boat.

“You good?” he asked, which I took to be his way of asking if all was well.

“Yeah. All good.”

He afforded me a smile, then went straight back to business. “Okay, there’s some things I need to show you. It’s important.”

His tone was serious, so I guessed it was a safety issue. And I was right. “You have to make sure the ladder is down before you dive in. I can’t stress this enough.”

“I’ve seen that movie,” I admitted, “where they all jumped in and the ladder wasn’t down. They couldn’t get back in and drowned.”

He nodded. “True story. Normally there’s more than just two people, and I stay aboard while they swim then dive in real quick after they’re all back safely.”

Again, he mentioned that it was just us two. “Yeah, sorry. He didn’t give me any notice.”

“No, that’s fine. It’s no bother to me. We just need to adjust, that’s all.” He looked at the sky and the ocean around us. “Conditions are perfect. We have no worries. I just have to give you the rundown, by law.”

“Yeah, fair enough. I appreciate it.”

He smiled, finally. “Now, sunscreen?”

“Oh.” It was pretty obvious I hadn’t thought of that. “I packed some. Just haven’t put it on yet.”

“I have some.” He cleared his throat and made a face. “Need um… need me to help with that?” He lifted the seat in the cockpit and took out a bottle of SPF 50. “Being from Brisbane, you’re kind of used to the sun, but I’ve had some folks from other parts of the world that resembled lobsters after day one.”

“I can imagine.” I looked at the sunscreen he was holding and held in the breath I wanted to sigh out. “If you could do my back, that’d be great.” I turned and heard the pop of the lid, and then his strong, warm hands were on my shoulders. The cream was cool but he rubbed it in, squeezing my shoulders a bit.

“You’re tight as hell.”

I snorted. “You’re not the first man to tell me that.”

His hands stilled, and his voice was lower. “Oh. I meant in the shoulders.”

I shot a grin over my shoulder at him. “Yeah, I knew that. I just couldn’t leave that punchline hanging.”

He finished rubbing in the sunscreen, using sure hands and strong strokes. I had to admit, I liked his touch.

“You work out,” he said. It was a statement, not a question. Was his voice husky? Or was it my imagination?

“Yeah. Helps with stress.”

He squeezed my shoulders again. “Doesn’t seem to be working too well.”

I let my head fall back as he dug his thumbs in. “Yeah. It’s a work in progress. And anyway, that’s what I’m here for. To relax and de-stress.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” he said, pulling his hands away.

I turned to face him, thankful the towel was knotted at my front, giving me a little room to hide any appreciation that might be showing in my Speedos. “Need me to return the favour?”

He turned quickly and pulled his shirt off. “Sure.”

His shoulders were broad, his arms were well-muscled, his waist was trim. I smeared sunscreen all over his back and went to work. “You’re not tight at all.”

Now it was he who snorted. “Can’t say I’ve ever been told that.”

I laughed at that. “I should hope not.”

He rolled his shoulders. “I haven’t had one stressful day in six years.”

Then I ran my fingers down his collarbones and over his biceps, rubbing some sunscreen there. Not really needing to touch him there, but I had a good excuse. He was firm under my hands, his skin tanned and beautiful, and I longed to see the front. “Lucky you. Sounds like this was the best thing you ever did.”

“It really was.” He turned to face me, and I wasn’t disappointed in his chest. Oh no… not disappointed at all. Tanned, with the perfect amount of chest hair, darker than his dirty blond. He didn’t exactly have a six pack, but he was most definitely well-defined all over.

That thought made me shiver.

Thankfully, he didn’t notice. He was too busy squirting sunscreen on his hand, and then he handed it to me before he proceeded to rub it over his chest and stomach, his arms, then finally his face. And I was still stuck staring at him. He was gorgeous.

Shit.

Why did I have to be wearing tiny, white Speedos?

Needing the distraction, I busied myself lathering on sunscreen, and when I was done, I couldn’t put it off any longer. I walked to the back of the yacht, dropped my towel, and dived into the crystal-clear, aqua-coloured water.

I wondered if he watched me drop the towel. Part of me hoped he had.

It was probably ridiculous. And utterly futile. Even if he was interested in guys, he’d probably have some company policy about fraternising with paying clients. Much like I did; never get involved personally with clients. It was a good work ethic to have, and if I lived by it, I certainly couldn’t blame Foster for doing the same.

But damn, he was hot. And it was just the two of us…

Jesus, Stuart. Get a grip.

I broke the surface and let the salt air fill my lungs. The water was glorious and a welcome relief to the heat and humidity of the tropical summer. I could see the white sand at the bottom, just a few metres down. We were close enough to shore that I could swim to the beach. It was maybe fifty metres. I did ten times that to finish my gym sessions… And then I thought that was a great idea. So I set off at a leisurely pace, nice long strokes, and kept my breathing even until I could stand up.

I stayed waist deep and turned to face the yacht. And wow, didn’t it look glorious against the backdrop. It sure was a beautiful boat. Foster stood on the back and waved, and I could see the smile on his face from where I stood. I waved back, then proceeded to float on my back for a moment or two. There were no waves. The inlet was protected, and I could float easily.

It felt amazing.

Being immersed in cool water, the warm sun on my front, the silence, the feeling of being removed. There was no stress here. No crazy deadlines, no boss yelling, no customers complaining, or worse, crying. No co-workers trying to talk themselves down in the bathrooms, no assistants looking nervously around the offices.

Nothing but the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears and the sound of the water lapping at my skin.

This was just what the doctor ordered.

I stood again and walked up the beach. It was completely private, not another soul for miles, with the exception of Foster, but even he was giving me space. I walked up onto the whitest sand I’d ever seen, silken and hot under the sun, and I put my hand on one of the many palm trees. It was rough and warm, and the wood felt amazing.

I’d always loved the texture of different objects, obscure things, and this was perfect. Everything felt amazing. It felt different here. Like a vacation should.

Sure, I was disappointed Jason had opted out, but I couldn’t change that now, and at any rate, I liked Foster. And I was certain he wouldn’t be sharing stories with me or teaching me the basics of sailing if Jason were here. He wouldn’t have offered to rub sunscreen on my back, that was for sure.

Surely a little holiday flirting was allowed. It didn’t have to lead anywhere, but a sexy smile and laugh and actual conversation were sometimes just as therapeutic as sex. Especially sex that didn’t mean anything.

I wasn’t tired of one-night hook-ups. Was I?

Not that it really mattered. I didn’t have a choice. My work was such a commitment, I didn’t have time for anyone. It wouldn’t be fair to them. No, my career was number one, and casual hook-ups were all I’d ever need.

I walked along the beach a bit, wondering if rubbing in sunscreen was all Foster was interested in. His hands had felt so good on me, I certainly wouldn’t mind his touch on other parts of my body. Would it make things awkward between us if I asked? What if he said no?

What if he said yes?

Jesus. He could be happily married for all I knew.

I looked back to the yacht. Foster wasn’t on the deck or the cockpit or in the water, so I assumed he was in the cabin. I didn’t mind; I felt a million miles away from everything, yet somehow sure Foster knew my whereabouts at every second. So I kept walking at a slow pace, and by the time I’d made my way back down the beach, Foster was sitting on the back of his yacht, his feet in the water. He was now wearing board shorts, and he gave me a wave and I could see his smile.

I reckoned I’d left him alone enough or worried him enough about what the hell I was doing, so I waded back out and began a slow, languid swim back to the yacht. I pulled up a few metres from him and trod water, taking in his sexy, shirtless form. “Getting in?” I asked him.

“Maybe.”

“It’s divine.”

He gave me a pouty smile and kicked his feet in the water, but he leaned back on his hands and stared at me as if he was trying to decide. It was a curious gaze, then he bit on his bottom lip as though he was weighing up whether to cross a line or not.

Oh yeah. I recognised conflict of interest when I saw it.

Maybe he was reading my mixed signals. Maybe he was giving them. Maybe he bedded every client who boarded his yacht; maybe he was wondering how to offer his special services to me.

Maybe I should make it a whole lot easier on him. Maybe I should lay my cards on the table, make him do the same, and see which one of us held the ace.

I swam up to the yacht, took the ladder in both hands, and hauled myself out of the water, slow step by slow step. He watched every movement and let out a slow breath when I sat right next to him. So maybe the white Speedos weren’t such a bad idea after all because he drank in every part of me.

I might have made a little show by patting my towel over my body, which he tried not to watch but failed, and I smiled when he licked his bottom lip.

“You should totally dive right in,” I said, meaning every ounce of double entendre I could load into just six words. “It’s worth it.”

He cleared his throat and looked back out to the beach before running a hand through his hair. “You’re probably right,” he replied, getting to his feet and diving in before I could say another word.

I was pretty good at reading people. It was what made me brilliant at my job. And I was sure I was reading him right. Yeah, the white Speedos hadn’t been a mistake after all.