Chapter Twenty-Seven
The five-piece band play slow, romantic music, which is the perfect soundtrack when the backdrop, as the evening sun lowers over the horizon, leaving the sky a warm yellow, is the breathtakingly beautiful French coastline.
Tonight, we’re anchored not far off the coast since it isn’t far to travel in the morning to Cannes.
The boat is still, the sea calm, the colourful buildings and bright lights of Nice glitter in the distance.
Gus walks me out to the dancefloor and spins us before I’ve even had a moment to register what he’s doing.
I find myself flush against his chest, one palm pressed between my shoulder blades, the other on my waist, fingers splaying, grazing the peak of my bottom.
I’ve instinctively slung one arm around his neck; the other holds onto his tanned, solid bicep.
He’s strong and steady, a relief since I have a total lack of coordination. Not to mention the useless ankle that could buckle at any moment.
His face is so close to mine, those light brown eyes almost golden in the lowering light, that all it would take is for me to press onto my toes and we’d be kissing again. And as if he has the same thought he allows himself to look at my lips.
He fights that smile. “How are you doing Mrs Kenwood?”
I snort. “Big of you to think I’d take your name.”
“You’re right. I’d change mine. What’s your surname?”
“Stirling.”
“Mr Stirling,” he says, trying it out. “That makes me sound quite official.”
I smile. “You enjoy letting people think we’re together, don’t you? Is it a favourite pasttime of yours? Fake dating your female friends?”
“We’re not friends,” he says without pause.
“Ouch.”
“Friends don’t play footsie.”
I bite my bottom lip and look away. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Gus spins me again, supporting my weight, careful to make sure my balance is sound.
“Do you really live in The Cotswolds?” I ask.
“Well… I own a house there. My sister looks after it at the moment. I’m barely ever at home.”
“These great men are never at home,” I say, finding myself incredibly funny.
“I don’t understand.”
“Pfft.”
“Should I understand?”
I nod. “Yes. But don’t worry. I’ll let you off for now.”
He leans back to get a read on my face. I think he wants in on the joke but it’s one that has to be earned. He swallows and I watch his throat work and ache to kiss him there. To taste his skin. He smells so inviting.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand and leading me away from the dancefloor.
I follow him, my bare feet pattering against the slick decking.
He leads me down two floors where we find a quieter spot at the back of the yacht.
The water is close enough from here that you can hear the peaceful slapping of it against the sides.
I’m feeling just a tad tipsy, when I lean against the railings to feel the wind rustle through my hair.
Our gazes are caught by another yacht passing by.
It’s sleek, black and pretentious. We wave because it feels funny and other cruises and yachts passing have done so.
The people on board this one though don’t even acknowledge us, but we carry on, laughing at ourselves being entirely fucking blanked by billionaires.
“You know, my mum humbled me so much growing up that when I first started getting money, I felt really guilty,” Gus says.
“They made us talk to financial advisers. And all I could think was, why the hell are you telling me how to make that money into more money? Surely, I just, you know, get a fancier bank account? It’s like once you’ve got it, all you’re meant to do is make it into more. ”
“Aww. Poor wealthy Popstar,” I mock, pouting.
He reaches over, carefully pinching the front of my dress. His fingers don’t even graze my skin, but I feel it everywhere, a small electric current rippling at the surface. I bite down hard on my tongue.
I can’t have him. For so many reasons. This can’t work.
I’m not even remotely emotionally ready for him. I was a runaway bride just over two months ago. The most I can offer him is a rebound
But the teasing thought of him on top of me, the weight of him everywhere, the feel of his hair in my hands.
Ahhhh.
As if he’s reading my mind, he steps closer, planting one hand either side of me, trapping me against the railings. “When are you going home?”
“After Barcelona. Why?”
“We could stay in the city for a few nights. Just us.”
“Don’t tease me.”
“I’m serious,” he says, his face so close I have to tip mine back, feel the warmth of his breath brush against my nose. His expensive aftershave, the woody, citrussy smell surrounds my senses.
“Pfft. You’re never serious.”
“I might be. When it comes to certain topics.”
“And what are those topics?”
“You.”
I swallow, feeling like my world is spinning. One word. You. It rolls through me like the first sip of a rich whiskey. But if we’re being serious, I need to lay the groundwork. “I don’t know what I have to give right now. I’m pretty depleted.”
“I don’t want to take anything from you, Sara.”
My voice comes almost like a whisper. “What do you want?”
“To give.”
I can’t fight the breathy laugh that escapes me. “What does that even mean?”
“I reckon you can use your imagination.”
I can. It’s very busy. It’s working up all kinds of delicious scenarios. “I’m worried I only have space for a rebound right now,” I say. I don’t want to mislead him. It sounds like he’s had to deal with that before. I won’t let it be me.
It’s his turn to swallow, his eyes tracing the line of my lips, his apple bobbing. “I just want to be whatever it is you need. And if that means a rebound, I’ll take it for now.”
We’ve gotten even closer. His nose grazes mine. One of my hands drops the railings and fists in his t-shirt to steady me.
“Gus,” I whisper. I don’t even know what I want to say. I feel like I need to push him away, to recalibrate my mind and yet all I can think to do is pull him closer.
He drops his head, grazing his lips down the side of my face, gently running them over my jawline and lower to the groove of my collarbone. I sigh, tipping back further. I want to get higher. I want to wrap my legs around him, so I shuffle upwards.
But the top bar I was searching for isn’t there.
I’ve got it horribly wrong.
I release his shirt, scrambling for a bar.
Gus’s hands are quick to reach for me, but my body has already tipped too far back.
I’m fucking falling.
Typical.
The squeal that leaves my lips is feral. There are frantic footsteps from the deck below, but I’m already gone, slipping through Gus’s fingers like I’m made of something slick.