Harlow

---

I watched Xavier Badd hop from my boat to the dock and then jog back the way he’d come, stuffing his earbuds back in and then increasing his speed until he was pounding down the dock at a punishingly fast pace.

When he was out of sight, I flopped back on the couch, groaning. I really didn’t need a complication like Xavier. I’d come to Ketchikan to get away from everyone and everything. I’d intended this to be not just a vacation, but a total hiatus from my entire life— from people and from everything. I just wanted to sit on my boat, alone, read, and watch movies, and do yoga, and drink tea, and maybe work on that script idea I’d had back in college. Boys didn’t fit into my plans AT ALL.

But…

An insidiously insistent and persuasive part of my mind cropped up with all the reasons why it may not be such a bad idea to let myself have a little fun with Xavier. I mean, how much trouble could I get into? He doesn’t know who I am, I don’t think, which is kind of nice. Really, really nice, if I’m being totally honest with myself. Refreshing. Fascinating. He’s hard to read, but it seems like he’s interested in me—attracted, if the constant roving of his eyes is any indication—but also interested. Conversation with him is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced—he challenges me mentally, keeps me guessing. He’s a mystery. I mean, I really, truly do not understand him in any way, which I like.

All the other men I’ve known and dated and slept with were open books—utterly predictable. Which wasn’t a bad thing, necessarily. I knew what they wanted, even before I was famous. They wanted to get into my pants, and stay there as long as I’d let them. Harry, my only serious boyfriend, obviously liked me and cared about me for a lot more than that, but even with Harrison, it had started as mostly just sex, and the more had grown out of that. Harrison was smart, funny, interesting, sexy—he had ticked all the boxes. He was fun to talk to, great in bed, and seemed to genuinely care about me.

Our breakup had been mutual, an understanding that our lives and passions were leading us in totally different directions—he’d been a finance major with a minor in Mandarin, and upon graduation had accepted a highly coveted internship at a mammoth corporation in Hong Kong, while I was headed for Hollywood and the big screen. The other men I’ve spent any kind of time with? Sex. Good sex, and sometimes even meaningful sex with something resembling an emotional component, but largely just physical. It was something I was unapologetic about, and refused to qualify to anyone. I kept it intensely private, however, and after my fame had begun to grow, I’d made it a point to be very clear with anyone I spent time with that what we may or may not do together is a private matter—and so far, all the trysts I’d engaged in had remained off the public radar.

God, my mind was wandering. Why was I thinking about this?

Oh yeah—Xavier. He was the opposite of anyone I’d ever dated or slept with or even gone out with. Closed off in some ways, but open in others. Hard to read, with opaque motives and desires. I’d caught him staring at my chest—reassuring me that at the very least he was straight…or straight enough to like looking at my tits. But he hadn’t done or said anything that I recognized as flirting, or anything like an obvious overture. He certainly hadn’t hit on me.

I was interested in him, in a way I’d never been interested in a man before. Just in terms of sheer intellectuality, he was an enigma and a challenge to me—it was rare that anyone could truly challenge me intellectually, even more so because no one ever tried; they assumed because of my looks that I was a dumb bimbo who probably spent half the morning staring at a carton of orange juice simply because it said “concentrate” on it. Xavier seemed empty of those preconceptions. He spoke to me earnestly, genuinely, and without seeming like he was talking down to me, or trying to impress me. Even when he was talking about knowing classical Greek and Latin, he didn’t seem like a braggadocio, it was more a matter of fact, and he almost seemed reluctant to talk about it for fear of seeming that way.

Also, he was sexy.

I wasn’t sure he even realized it, which was part of his charm. He obviously worked hard on his body, because I know from personal experience that you don’t get as ripped as he is without a lot of brutally hard work, but he never once came across as arrogant or self-important. The men I’d known in Hollywood, even the nice, down-to-earth ones, had an air about them that they knew they were good looking. I mean, duh, right? They’re movie stars, of course they know they’re hot. But it’s just…off-putting.

Do I come across that way? I don’t know. Probably.

He tensed every time I touched him. I wonder what that’s about? He never moved away or tried to prevent me from touching him, though. And he kissed my hand! Who does that? I’ve never had my hand kissed, even for a role. My heart may or may not have pitter-pattered. For that matter, there may have been some pitter-patter happening a little further south, if you know what I mean. He did it so intently, so honestly, without pretense or guile. As if kissing my hand like a knight or lord out of something by Sir Walter Scott was an instinctive gesture.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m misreading him. Maybe he’s a really great actor and all this is just an elaborate ploy to get me to sleep with him.

Question: Is it working?

Answer: So far…yes.

Problem: Assuming he really doesn’t know who I am—what if he finds out? If he goes public with whatever may or may not happen between us, my little hiatus away from Hollywood and the paparazzi is ruined, as is the privacy and secrecy regarding my personal sexual life.

Is it worth risking my privacy and solitude to spend time with Xavier?

My gut reaction is that it would be, and that he’s genuine—no pretense

, no guile, no subterfuge. He doesn’t know who I am, and he seems to like me for more than my body—although he also does seem to like that, too…which I don’t mind. After all, I spend a fortune on personal trainers and nutritionists and hours in the gym to look this way, to keep the pounds off my hips, thighs, and ass, to keep my abs visible. The trick is keeping my fat percentage low enough that I have abdominal definition without sacrificing the body fat necessary to actually have boobs—if I dropped too low, those puppies would vanish. It’s a delicate balance, and one that’s nearly impossible to maintain without the kind of professional assistance I can afford.

Point is, he likes the way I look enough to steal glances, and even to be caught staring, although he was far more careful after that first time. Almost to the point of not looking at me at all.

Come to think of it, he rarely looked me in the eye. Was that on purpose? Embarrassed at having been caught staring at my tits?

I’m so scattered today. Xavier threw me off, that much is obvious.

Now that yoga is out of the question for the day, if not for the next few days, what am I going to do?

I pressed a button hidden in the arm of the couch, and a panel slid away on the opposite wall, revealing a 75-inch flat screen smart TV. There was also an iPad disguised as a hardcover book, meant to appear as part of the decor; I flipped open the cover and the iPad came to life, which controlled the audio and video. I have a satellite connection onboard available nearly worldwide, feeding me Wi-Fi wherever I go, granting me constant access to my Netflix and Hulu subscriptions. I mean, a girl has to be able to stream her shows, right?

Yes, I’m spoiled.

And, no, I don’t care.

What’s weird is that I haven’t had a blow-out since leaving LA for the Westworld shoot in Utah, nor a manicure or a pedicure, or a massage. And you know what? I don’t miss it. Well, the massages I miss, but the hair and nails? It’s a lot of upkeep. It’s part of my lifestyle, having perfect hair and nails all the time, everywhere I go, and it’s a lot of upkeep, quite honestly. When you know you’re going to be photographed from every angle possible everywhere you go, doing even the most mundane things, it’s a fact of life that you never leave the house without looking your best. Going to the gym at four in the morning? Better make sure your ponytail is perfect, with no bumps or flyaways. Better have your outfit on point, too. Ratty sweats and old sneakers need not apply.

It’s just a lot.

First world problems? Absolutely. One-percenter problems? Absolutely.

Still, it’s part of the lifestyle, and a lot of upkeep. Which means it’s nice to be able to sit around with a messy ponytail, no makeup, fingernails clipped short and less-than-perfect cuticles, still wearing toenail polish from a month and a half ago. It’s nice to know I can wake up, put on my favorite gray, faded NYU sweats with the holes in the knees and fraying at the ankles, and a T-shirt I’ve had since middle school and not give a shit, because no one will see me, no one will be taking any photos.

It’s nice to sleep in till nine instead of getting up at four or five every day to work out and go to shoots and appear at press junkets and get blowouts and mani-pedis and meet Lindsey for lunch and Martin for drinks to talk scripts. No Emily constantly chirping about where I have to be next. I know I chose this life, and I do still want it, but I think I’m also allowed to be stressed out by it and need a break from it.

So, today, I’m going to binge on a whole season of Real Housewives, and maybe drink a little too much wine, and probably eat more of that yummy lasagna Chef Jean-Paul made for me. Yeah, it’ll go straight to my belly and butt, but you know what else? I don’t care! I know when I go back to LA I’ll have to tell Marcus to really kick my ass back into shape but, for now…I’m treating myself to some time spent doing whatever the fuck I want, because I need it.

Does that time include Xavier?

I think it does.

I’m obviously on vacation, and said so. I don’t want to have to have the “this is only temporary” conversation because that’s always awkward. But then, why overthink it? Why not just…let things happen as they will? It’s a bit of harmless fun. He’s fun to be around, interesting to talk to, and easy on the eyes. If something happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t.

I flicked on the TV, queued up the first episode of the latest season of Orange County, and tried my best to put a certain tall, dark, and handsome genius out of my mind.

It wasn’t easy, though, because damn, those abs, and damn, those eyes.

And have I mentioned I’m a sucker for a good mystery? I love figuring things out, and Xavier seems like a real challenge to figure out.

I’m not supposed to be thinking about him, though.

Come on, Tamra, say something ridiculous and hysterical, because Low needs a distraction.

---

I was woken up at dawn the next day by the obnoxiously chipper chirruping of a bird, which landed on the railing right outside my bedroom window and it decided to tweet and whistle and sing as loudly as possible. At first, I was irritated—I wanted to sleep in, dammit. But then I opened my eyes and saw the little creature, sitting on the railing, joyful as can be, happy to be alive. And I was less irritated. Marginally, at least.

I stretched luxuriously, the absurdly high thread count of the sheets softer than silk against my bare skin; I sleep naked, and have for years—I just sleep better that way. I slid out of bed, testing my ankle. It was a little sore, but not debilitating. I could probably go back to yoga tomorrow if I was careful and not too overzealous. My head was a little sore to the touch where I’d hit it, but other than that, my stupid accident was just a memory.

The other boats near mine left yesterday, so I was all alone in my slip there at the end of the dock—it was early in the morning, before six, the sun just beginning to peek up over the horizon, which meant there shouldn’t be anyone about, and certainly not down this far on the docks. Feeling daring, I stepped out onto the small balcony of the main cabin, still naked. The air was cool and crisp, with a gentle breeze blowing, and not a cloud in the sky. I stood and raised my arms over my head, inhaling deeply, and then bent to touch my toes, grabbing my ankles, holding the stretch, and then straightening into a gentle backbend—the first few movements of the sun salutation. I left it there, not wanting to push my ankle too far, and the balcony wasn’t really big enough for the full series anyway. It was nice to just stand and let the sunlight kiss my skin, orange on my closed eyelids, warmth soaking into me.

And then, in the distance, I heard a footstep.

My eyes flicked open, and I saw a thin figure in the distance, way down the dock, approaching at a leisurely walk.

Xavier.

Could he see this far? He was barely a stick figure from this distance, but still.

I darted back inside, started to shut the door, but then stopped myself. So what if he saw me? Unless he had eagle vision, from that distance I could have been wearing a bikini for all he knew. Or if not, he wouldn’t have been able to really see anything.

And if he had?

The thought of Xavier having seen me naked, even from a distance, sent thrills through me. Dark, delicious, and naughty jolts of electricity.

I had a fleeting and ridiculous notion of not putting on anything at all, just to see his reaction when he got here. But I was nowhere near that daring or forward. I liked to take things in logical steps. Even if it was nothing but temporary physical fun, I wasn’t the type of girl to just jump right into bed. I didn’t do one-night stands, and I certainly didn’t answer the door naked for a guy I’d literally just met and spent maybe thirty minutes with. It was a fun idea to think about, though. Would he be scandalized? Would he get an immediate erection? From what I could tell about Xavier, he would probably not know what to say, or where to look.

Maybe I could still play with him a little. Just to see what his reaction would be.

I hunted through my closet until I found what I was looking for: a short silk kimono, purchased on a press trip to Japan for my film with Dawson. It was custom made for me, sewn by hand to my precise measurements. The hem came to mid-thigh, the sleeves draped loose, and the front edges were designed to only sort of overlap when closed, leaving a good bit of cleavage on display. It was unbelievably comfortable, yet sexy as hell—a provocative blurring of the line between lingerie and loungewear. I tied it closed and examined my reflection in the mirror, messing with my hair a little, making sure a strand or two hung loose artfully, making sure nothing was revealed which shouldn’t be—yet making sure I was still displayed at my best…in a casual, accidental sort of way.

Satisfied that I looked pretty damn good, but not like I was trying, I headed down to the main level and turned on the automatic espresso machine to brew a latte. By the time the machine was done with the clanking and hissing and steaming and whooshing, Xavier arrived at my slip.

“Low?” he called out, not too loudly—his voice pitched so that if I was awake I’d hear, but if I wasn’t I wouldn’t be woken up. It was a wonderfully thoughtful thing, which made me smile to myself.

I took my mug with me as I stepped out of the cabin onto the deck, going forward to greet Xavier. He had a large brown paper bag in one hand, and two paper cups of coffee in a cardboard drink holder in the other. He was deliciously gorgeous, wearing tight, dark blue jeans slouched into loosely tied combat boots, with a tight black T-shirt stretched around his lean torso, the symbol for pi printed on the chest.

“Good morning, Xavier.” I gave him my brightest, happiest, most welcoming smile—which I didn’t have to fake at all; I really was genuinely happy to see him, more than I’d expected to be. “You’re up early.”

“So are you.” He lifted the bag and the holder. “I brought breakfast and coffee. Although I see you already have coffee.”

“Come on aboard,” I said. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Oh, something I put together. Nothing fancy. Omelets with spinach and cream cheese, with sides of bacon.” He frowned. “You are not vegan or vegetarian are you? I did not consider that until this moment.”

I laughed. “No, neither one. That sounds amazing.” I led him around the side of the cabin to the breakfast nook at the rear of the boat, sheltered under an overhang but still outside. “You’re a chef, then?”

He set the bag down and withdrew two Styrofoam containers. “A chef? No, I do not think I could claim that particular title. I am more of a short-order cook.” He slid one container to me, and handed me a pre-wrapped package of plastic ware. “Breakfast food is something I enjoy preparing.”

“I have real silverware, hang on a moment.” I went inside and came back out with actual forks. “What kind of coffee did you bring?”

“Just plain black drip coffee,” he answered.

“Oh, well, if you prefer, I have a machine that can make fancy stuff. Lattes and things.”

“You are a barista?” He seemed surprised, which I found funny and only mildly insulting, even though his assumption that I probably couldn’t make a latte the traditional way was correct.

“Ha—no. It’s an automatic thing. It came with the boat.”

He glanced at the paper cups he’d brought. “I suppose a cappuccino would be rather nice. Thank you.”

I felt his gaze on me as I went back inside to set the machine to make his cappuccino. Did his gaze wander to my legs, which looked especially long in this short kimono? Or did it stay fixed on my ass as I sashayed into the galley? He was looking, that much was for sure. I put a little extra sway to my hips as I returned outside with his drink, and only barely suppressed a satisfied smile at the way his eyes flicked quickly from my feet up to my face, taking in everything on the way up. When his eyes met mine, he glanced quickly away, and his cheeks reddened.

I handed him his mug. “One cappuccino for you, Mr. Badd. Not as good as they make in Italy, but still pretty good.”

“I would not know what they taste like in Italy, having never been there,” he said. “Thank you.”

I sat down and he followed suit, opening one of the containers as I opened the other. The omelet inside looked…perfect. Better than I’d had at many an upscale breakfast spots around the world. Fluffy, with a perfect amount of cream cheese and sautéed spinach. The bacon was crisp but not burnt.

“This looks truly amazing, Xavier. Thank you. It was very thoughtful of you, especially this early in the morning.”

He smiled, shrugging. “I am always up early. I was not sure if you would be up this early, but I took a chance you would be. It seems to have paid off.”

“Early riser, huh?”

He shrugged, taking a bite. “I require less sleep than the average person.”

“I was hoping to sleep in, but a bird woke me up.”

We ate in a surprisingly companionable silence. The omelet was even more delicious than it looked. He’d used a generous sprinkling of herbs and spices, so it was intensely flavorful with a hint of spiciness. When we were finished, Xavier finished the last of his cappuccino and shot me a glance.

“Would you like to go on that boat ride this morning?” he asked.

I nodded, smiling. “Absolutely. It sounds like a great way to spend the morning.”

His gaze flicked momentarily from my face to my cleavage, and then back. “I will see if I can find your launch and figure out how to get it into the water while you change.”

I smirked at him. “You mean I can’t wear my kimono to go fishing?”

He shook his head seriously. “I am afraid not. As ravishing as it looks, and as becoming as you are in it, a kimono is not appropriate attire for a fishing expedition. You would be cold, and there is a chance you may get wet.”

Ravishing? Becoming?

He was serious?

I couldn’t help a snickering laugh. “Xavier, I was being sarcastic.”

He blinked at me owlishly. “Oh. I suppose that would make more sense. You are most likely sensible enough to know better, even for a city girl.”

I frowned at him. “Yes, Xavier, I’m sensible enough to know better than to think something like this—” I swept a hand down my body in gesture, “is appropriate attire for a fishing expedition.”

His gaze followed my hand. “That was meant to be sarcastic.”

“Oh,” I laughed. “I’m not quite sure you have the hang of sarcasm, Xavier.”

Another slow blink. “I hope I did not offend you.”

I reached across the table and patted his forearm, and then let my hand rest there, tracing the patterns of his tattoos. “No, you didn’t.”

“That kimono is a very beautiful article of clothing.” His gaze flicked down, and then back up. “Or rather, it looks beautiful upon you.” He licked his lips. “Both statements are equally true.”

I smiled coyly. “Thank you. It’s very comfortable.”

“It does not appear to be tied closed properly in the front,” he said, and then blushed, ducking his head. “That was not a thought I should have voiced, I do not think.”

I glanced down, realizing—or pretending to realize, rather—that the edges of had parted a bit, revealing a considerable expanse of the insides of my breasts, the edges only barely covering my nipples. One wrong jostle, and I’d be exposed; I think he was more than half hoping I’d move wrong, for that precise reason.

“Silly old thing.” I said, smirking at him. “It doesn’t like to stay closed, does it? It’s super comfortable, just not very modest, I guess. I wasn’t expecting you this early.”

“I hope it was not an inconvenience.” His gaze kept flicking up and down, as if the war he was waging with his impulses was losing one.

I almost told him I didn’t mind if he looked, but that would ruin the fun of flirting with him. “Not at all,” I said. “As long as you don’t mind seeing me in this old thing. I know I’m not exactly dressed for company.”

He swallowed hard, and his eyes remained steadfastly on my face. “I…certainly do not mind.”

I bet not—I didn’t say that, though. “I’m going to go get dressed. I think the launch is toward the back somewhere.”

“I believe the correct term for the rear of the boat is ‘stern’ as a matter of fact.”

I stood up and traipsed inside, glancing over my shoulder to catch his gaze darting away from my butt. “Yeah, I know. But I just own the thing, I don’t sail it or drive it or whatever.”

I smiled to myself as I went up to my cabin to change. I dressed in a pair of jeans, a thin cotton V-neck T-shirt, and a thick sweater, with a pair of cute hiking boots I’d purchased several months ago, with the idea that I’d start hiking Runyon Canyon. After working some scented leave-in conditioner into my hair and brushing it backward, I tugged it into a ponytail and then donned a baseball cap and a pair of large-framed, darkly tinted sunglasses. I watched from the window as Xavier fiddled with a set of controls near the rear—the stern, I suppose I should say—of the boat, eventually figuring out how to get the ship’s automated system to send out the smaller boat, what Xavier called the launch.

Xavier watched a panel on the side of the yacht open to reveal the smaller boat. I’d have called it a dinghy, or better yet, a baby boat. It was an adorable little thing, finely crafted of blonde wood and polished to a shine. It had a motor built into it, rather than the kind that hung over the back of the boat, and it had an actual steering wheel. Xavier shook his head as if in disbelief. He peered over the railing at the launch, leaning forward on his toes, hands at his sides, rhythmically patting his legs with his palms.

I went down and joined him at the railing. “I see you figured out how to launch the launch.” I laughed at my own phrasing. “Launch the launch. That’s stupid.”

He patted his thighs with his palms a few more times, and then glanced down at his hands with a slight frown, stuffing his fists into his jeans pockets. “Yes, I did. This is a highly automated craft you own, Low.” He jutted his chin at the launch. “That is quite a thing, that. Rather more…expensive…than a typical dinghy. It is a work of art in its own right.”

I shrugged. “It came with the boat. This is actually the first time I’ve even seen it. It is pretty nice, isn’t it?” I glanced at him. “So…how do we get down there?”

He laughed. “Actually, I was wondering the same thing. There does not appear to be a ladder, or a platform.”

“Maybe there’s an entrance down in the side of the boat.”

“That is a logical suggestion.”

I laughed. “Okay, Spock, well, let’s go look, shall we?”

Xavier stared at me. “Spock?”

“Yes, from Star Trek?”

“Obviously I am familiar with the character of Spock. But why did you refer to me as him?”

I led him through the boat to the stairs and then to the lower level. “You talk like him— you know, properly, formally, without contractions and with all sorts of fancy words, and saying things like ‘that is a logical suggestion.’ You just remind me of Spock, that’s all.”

“I shall choose to take that as a compliment, I believe.”

I rubbed his shoulder, noting again the way he tensed at my touch. “It was meant as one.”

I found a door I’d never bothered looking behind, which lead down to a small, low-ceilinged platform, just large enough to contain the launch when stowed. It was a mystery to me how the mechanism worked, and I didn’t really care. It was cool, and useful. And kind of impressive, honestly.

Xavier made his way across the platform and hopped into the boat, while I made my way with less surety, hesitating at the hop from the platform onto the boat.

Leaning forward, Xavier reached out for me. “May I offer you my assistance?”

I leaned forward, and his hands wrapped around my waist, and he lifted me into the boat. The boat shifted, and I toppled forward against him. His hands, already on my waist, slid farther around to my back, holding me in place against him, his hard, lean body supporting mine for a moment. His startling green eyes met mine. His breath caught, and his fingertips dimpled into my back.

“Hi,” I whispered. “You caught me.”

His hands slid up my back, hesitating mid-spine, and then he held me by the arms and gently righted me. “Indeed I did. In such close quarters, I could hardly fail to catch you.”

He met my gaze for another moment or two, and then looked away, as if unable to hold my gaze. I was somewhat disappointed that he let me go so soon. His hands had felt nice on my back, and his body had felt strong against mine. Hard, firm.

I’d almost thought, for a moment, that he intended to kiss me. But he didn’t. With gentlemanly decorum, he had set me upright and backed away, as if to not take advantage of my clumsiness.

A momentary pause, then, as Xavier stared at me with an unreadable expression on his face, his fingertips tapping against his thighs. What went through his mind? What caused him to continually pull away from the obvious openings I was leaving him? He was a mystery. Fascinating, compelling.

“I…if you will take a seat, I will cast us off,” he said.

So, I took a seat and Xavier untied the line between the launch and the boat. He cast us off and started the engine, which gurgled to life and then caught with a throaty, powerful rumble. He spent a few moments examining the layout of the controls.

“Can you drive this?” I asked.

He nodded. “It is somewhere between a car and an outboard motor boat. I have not operated one of these particular kinds of boats before, but I think I will be able to manage.”

He slowly reversed us away from the larger boat, and then brought us in a wide arc so our bow—or is it prow?—was facing open water. With a gentle nudge of the throttle, the bow lifted and the engine snarled, and an immediate sense of momentum slammed me against my seat, making me cackle in surprised laughter.

Xavier barked a laugh as he backed off the throttle. “This is no ordinary launch.”

“It does seem kind of powerful.”

“Um, yes, rather. Once we get away from the docks and into more open water, I would like to open it up, if you would be agreeable.”

I laughed, leaning back in the seat. “You could just say, ‘I want to go fast.’”

“Would you be frightened if I opened the throttle all the way?”

He’d barely touched the throttle and I’d been pushed against my seat; if he opened it up all the way, how fast could we go? The idea sent a thrill of excitement through me. “That sounds like fun. Do it!”

We trundled away from the docks, slowly, so as not to send a wake that would rock the other boats as we made our way away from Ketchikan. A mountain loomed green, with a white crown, behind the little city, which was tucked in against it, nestled in the teeming mass of the forest. Water rippled silver and green and blue, winking diamonds in the sunlight. There was a cruise ship approaching, huge and white. A trio of seagulls wheeled directly above us, cawing and screeching, as if discussing us far below them.

I breathed deeply of the clean, fresh air, soaking up the sunlight on my skin. I let my eyes close for a moment, enjoying the breeze against my face, the sounds of the gulls, the rumble of the engine underneath me…the peacefulness. I didn’t even have my phone with me. No assistant, no script to memorize, no upcoming shoots or events, no galas or brunches, no leaks or rumors.

“This is perfect,” I murmured.

“Mmm. Yes, I agree.” Xavier’s voice was low.

I peeked through my eyelashes, and saw that he was watching me as he navigated us away from land and past the approaching cruise ship, which towered dizzyingly above us as we passed it. His expression was obvious, this time: appreciative, raking over me from head to toe, openly, thinking I still had my eyes closed. I liked his gaze on me; I enjoyed wondering what he was thinking, not knowing what he would say or how he would say it, what cute and funny thing he would do next. I enjoyed the anticipation of wondering how this thing would go. There was clearly an attraction between us, but how would it play out?

“Are you ready?” he asked. “I’m going to open the throttle.”

I sat up, whipped off my hat and clutched it in my hands, grinning at him. “Go!”

He’d used a contraction, I noted with interest.

He pushed the throttle forward in a smooth arc, and the powerful engine responded beautifully, roaring to life. The bow lifted until I couldn’t even see the water ahead of us, and then we leveled off as our speed increased. Our bow sliced the water, sending white spraying off to either side, wind whipping against us. I laughed as he continued to nudge the throttle forward, until it was as far as it could go. The sense of speed was so intense it forced disbelieving laughter out of me. I owned this thing? How had I not known? Had I even been told the yacht came with a freaking speedboat?

Xavier angled us toward open water, or what seemed like it. I had only a vague notion of the geography around here, and I felt like we were in a channel of some kind, so we weren’t heading for actual open ocean, just a more open section of channel.

“This is fun!” I shouted in his ear, grabbing his arm.

He only smiled at me, glancing down at my hand, wrapped around his bare bicep. His jaw tensed, and his eyes narrowed, and he sucked in a deep breath, held it, and then I watched as the tension bled out of him. He smiled again, relaxing, and turned back to driving the boat. Did he have an issue with being touched, maybe? He didn’t seem to mind it, now, so I held on to his arm, letting my fingers press into the smooth skin and hard muscle.

After a few minutes of daring, breathtaking speed, he backed off the throttle until we reached at a nice, leisurely pace, cruising down the channel. Another mile or so, and another channel or something opened up on our left, and he angled toward it. I was enthralled with the lush, green beauty of this place. I’d seen plenty of movies set in Alaska, and they always featured scenes exactly like the one I was in: forested hills to either side, placid, glassy water, clouds wisping across the sun, fish leaping up to splash dramatically, gulls wheeling and cawing. I scanned the sky, half expecting a bald eagle to soar overhead, keening. Really, the movies didn’t do it justice. The beauty was almost overwhelming, making something in my chest expand and throb, the sheer, unadulterated, majestic beauty filling some primal void inside me. The natural beauty just…resonated.

“It’s really, really amazing here, Xavier,” I said, after a while.

He nodded. “I grew up here, and it never gets old.”

I spent the next few moments openly examining Xavier’s features, the sharp lines of his jaw, the column of his neck, his thick, dark eyelashes. Curly, artfully messy, thick black hair. He really was incredibly beautiful. Hot wasn’t a good enough word, not to properly encompass what he truly looked like. Hot guys were a dime a dozen. Truly beautiful men? Not so much. He was masculine, utterly so— in his posture, in the way he carried himself, his stride. Even sitting at the wheel of the boat, he was effortlessly and unconsciously posing in a definitively masculine posture, one arm tossed over the side, the other hand confidently steering the boat. His vivid green eyes were always moving, always darting, and his hands were never still. One would slide around the steering wheel, tracing the leather, the stitching, the seam, and the other would be tapping at his knee, or his thigh, or plucking at his shirt or a thread of his jeans—other than his eyes and his hands, though, he was otherwise utterly motionless, a strange dichotomy of stillness and restlessness.

A thought occurred to me. “We were going fishing, weren’t we? I don’t think there’s any tackle or whatever it’s called on this boat.”

He gestured ahead, at a large red and white seaplane with two propellers, which was anchored in the distance, off to one side of the channel, engines off. A pair of figures could be seen sitting on the floats, fishing poles angled up and away, lines vanishing into the water. “That is my brother, Brock. He has plenty of extra fishing gear, which he has agreed to loan to me. We were going to be in the same area, so I figured we may as well just meet up with them for a moment.”

Meet up with his brother.

Shit.

SHIT.

I froze, tensed.

I had sunglasses on, and a hat. My hair was in a ponytail, pulled through the back of the hat. I was still recognizable, though. Shit. How did I get out of this without getting recognized? I didn’t want to have to switch into entertainer mode. I didn’t want to have to answer questions or sign autographs or take selfies. I wanted to sit in a boat alone with Xavier and pretend I was just any other girl.

Was that so much to ask?