Chapter Twenty-One Stay in Your Lane
Chapter Twenty-One
Stay in Your Lane
Frankie
The morning sun warms the air and casts a soft glow over the elegantly set breakfast table. Charles sits across from me, stirring his coffee, his expression mildly amused as I continue my latest deep dive into French history. Hayes is nowhere to be found.
“So, did you know,” I say, leaning forward to help myself to another croissant, “that Marie Antoinette never actually said ‘Let them eat cake’? It was just propaganda to make her look bad. People wanted a villain, and she was an easy target.”
Charles lifts a brow, setting his spoon down. “You don’t say.”
“I do say!” I gesture, nearly knocking over my orange juice.
“She was just a teenager—fourteen years old—when she married King Louis XVI—shipped over from Austria and expected to fit into this crazy, extravagant court life at Versailles. And, okay, maybe she spent too much on dresses and parties, but honestly? Can you blame a girl?”
He makes a noncommittal sound.
I shrug, taking a bite of my croissant. “Do you know how old she was when she was beheaded?”
Charles shakes his head.
“Thirty-seven.”
He takes a sip of coffee, studying me over the rim. “And what’s got you so interested in French history all of a sudden?”
I grin. “We’re in France, Charles. You can’t just float around a country like this and not get curious. So I went down a research rabbit hole.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, I can’t say I expected to get a history lesson with my breakfast, but it’s not the worst way to start the day.”
I lean back in my chair, satisfied. “Just wait until I tell you about the Affair of the Diamond Necklace. Now that’s a scandal.”
After breakfast, I change into my swimsuit, grab a paperback, and head to the sundeck.
We’re nearing our next stop, and the view from the port side captures my attention.
I thought Monaco would be prettier. That’s my first reaction.
There are an awful lot of orange high-rises perched along a fortified hill.
I guess I was expecting more, given how pretty the rest of the Riviera has been.
I’m distracted, so it takes me a moment to notice I’m not alone.
I round the corner near the outdoor shower and freeze mid-step.
Hayes stands under the spray, water streaming over his face and his chest, sliding down the ridges of his obliques and his pale, muscled ass before dripping onto the teak wood beneath his bare feet. And for a second, I forget how to move, how to breathe.
I should turn around. Walk away. But my feet betray me, and instead, I stay rooted in place, my gaze dragging up the length of him like a traitor.
He runs a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back, the muscles in his arm flexing with the motion. He’s unaware, unrushed, and I’m mesmerized. My pulse jumps, and for a second, I forget how to do anything but stare.
Then his head tilts slightly, like he senses something, and before I can react, his eyes flick open, locking onto mine.
Shit.
I make a strangled sound—something between a gasp and a cough—and whip around so fast I nearly trip over my own feet.
“Frankie?” His voice is laced with amusement, and I swear I can hear the smirk forming on his lips.
“Nope. Didn’t see anything!” I call over my shoulder, already halfway down the deck, my face burning. “Nothing at all.”
His chuckle follows me, deep and full of trouble. “Didn’t look like nothing.”
I don’t stop. I don’t dare look back.
I’m in so much trouble.
I manage to avoid Hayes the rest of the day, which isn’t hard to achieve because he heads into town for his errand. Charles sits in the shade while I read in a lounge chair.
“You want anything?” I ask him, dog-earing the corner of my paperback. “I’m going to grab a snack.”
He shakes his head.
I’m on my way back from the galley when I hear it—the unmistakable sound of frustration. An irritated grumble followed by the sharp clang of a washing machine door slamming shut.
Curious, I poke my head into the yacht’s tiny laundry room and freeze.
Hayes Winters, billionaire, master of the universe, and wearer of crisp, undoubtedly dry-cleaned shirts, is standing in front of the washing machine in a faded T-shirt with his arms crossed, scowling at it like it personally insulted him.
I lean against the doorframe, arms folded. “You okay there, big guy? You look like you’re about to challenge that Whirlpool to a duel.”
He startles, then smooths his features into something vaguely aloof. “I’m fine. Just . . . figuring this out.”
My eyes drift to the laundry detergent sitting, still capped, on top of the machine, then to the buttons on the control panel, all of which seem to have been pressed in a desperate attempt to make something happen. The machine sits silent, unbothered.
“You’ve never done your own laundry before, have you?” I ask, biting back a smile.
He lifts his chin. “Of course I have.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“. . . Maybe once.” He frowns in concentration.
The laugh I’ve been holding in escapes before I can stop it. “Oh, this is rich. What happened? Butler on vacation?”
His glare is half hearted at best. “If you’re just here to gloat, you can leave.”
“Oh no,” I say, stepping in and nudging him aside. “This is too good. I have to help now.”
He gives me a helpless look. “The truth is, I never learned. I went to two different boarding schools. Laundry would disappear and come back two days later clean, folded, and perfectly pressed, so yeah, laundry machines scare me.”
“Well, nothing to be afraid of.” I peer into the open machine. “At least you sorted your colors.”
He hesitates. “Should I have?”
I whip my head around. “You didn’t?”
His smirk is back. “Relax, I’m not a total lost cause.”
I shake my head, grabbing the detergent. “Okay, first, you don’t need half the bottle.” I pour in a reasonable amount before showing him the settings. “And you want cold water for darks, hot for whites—”
“Why?”
I blink at him. “Why . . . what?”
“Why cold for darks and hot for whites?”
I open my mouth, then close it. “. . . Because that’s the rule.”
He smirks again, like he’s caught me in some kind of trap. “So you don’t actually know.”
I shove his arm playfully. “Shut up and push the button.”
He obliges, pressing Start. The machine rumbles to life, and he leans against the counter, watching me with something new in his eyes. Something warm.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice lower, quieter.
It sends a flicker of heat up my spine. This is . . . different. We’re different.
I roll my eyes, desperate to steer us back into familiar waters. “You’re welcome, Your Highness. Next time, I’ll teach you about dishwashers.”
His gaze flicks to my mouth, just for a second. “Looking forward to it.”
And that is when I decide I need to leave this tiny, too-close space before I start thinking about how cute he looks all ruffled and helpless.
Because that would be dangerous. And very stupid.
Charles and I spend the day on the sundeck enjoying the fresh air and gorgeous views of the blue Mediterranean Sea that stretch on forever. We play Wordle, swap stories about our most cringeworthy dates.
Mine was a tie—first there was the guy who brought his mom, and then another time, I got food poisoning mid-dinner.
Charles, on the other hand, once had a date that was too perfect—planned down to the last second—and it completely freaked him out.
I could see that. He’d been on his own for so long; having someone new dictate every minute would be a challenge for him.
Then we ate an early dinner and watched Jeopardy!
All in all, it was a pretty great day. As I sit here, watching his eyelids grow heavy, I can’t help but wonder.
Is this what it would have been like to have a dad? Someone to eat dinner with and bicker over meaningless trivia? Someone to play Scrabble with? Who would fall asleep in his armchair by roughly 7:34 each night?
I don’t hate it.
There’s something predictable and kind of soothing about it.
Later, when I head below deck to do my own laundry, I find a pair of black boxer briefs that appear to have been left behind.
I grab them and freeze, running my fingers over the silky material.
Whoa. What even is this material? I’ve never felt anything as soft and buttery before.
Is this modal? I never knew what modal was. Maybe this is it.
“Can I help you?” Hayes asks from behind me.
I turn, still clutching his underwear in my hands. I thrust them at him. “I found these in the dryer.”
“Thanks.”
I blush like crazy but muster a smile. Act normal. Hard to do when I saw him naked earlier and now fondled his underwear. Classic, Frankie! “You want to join me for a glass of wine in the main salon?” I blurt. I’m nothing if not smooth.
He looks almost bashful, and I’m confused for a second before he admits, “I actually have a date tonight.”
A date?
We arrived in Monaco all of two hours ago. Of course he does.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Have fun.”
I should be asleep.
It’s late—so late that even the gentle rocking of the yacht has settled into a slow, steady rhythm, lulling the world into quiet. But sleep won’t come. Instead, I’m stretched out on the couch in the main salon, aimlessly scrolling on my phone, pretending I’m not waiting for something.
And then I hear it—the low murmur of voices, the distinct sound of bare feet padding along the teak decking. A second later, the door swings open, and in walks Hayes.
With a date.
She’s blond, stunning, and barely old enough to order the drink she’s currently giggling over. She clings to his arm like he’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic, her other hand pressing against his chest as she murmurs something in a breathy voice.
I go rigid as a sharp and completely unreasonable wave of irritation slams through me.
“Oops, is this the lobby?” she asks, blinking at me as if surprised to find another human on board.
“Nope,” I deadpan, crossing my arms. “Just me. Living here. Existing.”
She giggles—an airy, tipsy sound that makes my jaw clench. Hayes, on the other hand, looks . . . tired. Not guilty, not smug, just vaguely exasperated, like a man who accidentally picked the slowest checkout line at the store but is too polite to abandon it now.
“Francesca,” he greets me, his voice low and even, as if this is the most normal situation in the world.
“Hayes.” I give him a tight, saccharine smile. “Nice night?”
The model—because let’s be real, she has to be a model—tilts her head up at him. “You didn’t tell me there was a roommate situation,” she purrs.
Oh, for the love of—
I glare at Hayes, waiting for him to correct her.
To clarify that I am absolutely not his roommate but rather the unfortunate witness to his questionable life choices.
But he just exhales through his nose, a small, concerned look on his stern features, and steers her gently toward the hallway leading to his room.
“Good night, Francesca,” he says, and before I can even formulate a cutting response, he disappears below deck with his . . . companion.
I stare after them, my blood simmering.
Unbelievable.
I am not mad. That would be ridiculous. He can do whatever he wants. Sleep with whoever he wants. Date whatever human embodiment of an Instagram filter he wants.
Nope. Not mad at all.
I shove my phone under a pillow, yank a blanket over my head, and pretend I don’t care.
Badly.