Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Flynn
I have to force myself to keep my eyes off Max during the cart ride down to the marina. I’m sure she was intent on torturing me when she chose the bikini I hadn’t seen yet––two scraps of burgundy material that barely conceal all her private bits and make me want to throw a potato sack over her so no one else can see.
We’re in a cart with two bench seats that face each other with Max sitting between Peter and me while Lars and Barnard occupy the opposite seat. It’s good that Max is beside me, because if she was in front of me, there’s no way I’d be able to keep my eyes off her.
I pass the time by trying not to glare at Lars, who has exactly zero qualms about watching her like that wolf in the old cartoons whose eyes pop out of his head. And now he’s biting his lip? Jesus. I think this dude has been watching too many online thirst traps. Not everyone can pull that off without looking ridiculous, man.
Max seems blissfully unaware of the douchebag’s attention as she takes in the scenery outside the cart. I have no doubt she’d take care of Lars, herself, if and when she did happen to notice, so even though I can feel anger bubbling in my gut, I keep my expression blank and disinterested.
Besides, the last thing I should do is cause a scene by drop-kicking Lars out of this moving vehicle.
The image of doing just that makes me smile. My grin drops when I notice Barnard staring at me, a smile of his own curving his lips. Clearing my throat, I acknowledge his attention with a stiff nod before looking left to watch the trees pass by.
When the path opens up to the ocean to reveal the marina, my mouth falls open in shock. What Barnard called a “boat” sits moored to a long dock, gleaming in the sun like it’s been washed and waxed every single day of its existence.
“That’s your boat ?” Max asks Barnard with wide eyes, stressing the last word like she’s read my mind.
The damn thing is a luxury yacht. The kind you’d see owned by sickeningly rich drug lords in blockbuster action movies.
Barnard laughs and points at the yacht. “That’s my girl, the Lady Syrena.”
I don’t know why I’m shocked or why I’d expected a normal boat. The man owns this whole island. Of course, he has a yacht fit for a king.
The five of us pile out of the cart, and Barnard leads the way down the long dock where a man in a white uniform waits for us beside a ramp that leads up to the boat. Barnard introduces him to us as Captain Porter. He greets each of us with a “welcome aboard” as we file up the ramp, and Barnard leads us up to a large, shaded deck that holds plush, white couches, glass tables, and potted plants.
“Make yourselves at home,” he says with a wide grin. “The galley staff will be out in a moment with drinks and hors d’oeuvres.”
I sit on one side of a love seat, and Max slides in next to me with a nervous smile before flicking her eyes toward Lars. So, she did notice his attention on the ride over despite her apparent cluelessness. And she knows if she gives him half a chance, he’ll cozy up to her in hopes of getting into her bikini bottoms.
I glance in his direction to find him frowning at us, but the second he realizes I’ve noticed, he dons a fake smile and takes a seat at the opposite end of the long couch from where Peter is sitting. Barnard claps his hands before plopping down in an oversized chair and stretching his legs out atop the matching ottoman.
Two staff members appear, one carrying a tray of mimosas while the other sets a platter of fruit, crackers, and cheese on the table in the center. Max takes a flute with a smile, so I follow suit, and we clink our glasses together before taking a sip.
“So, tell me about working at the Journal ,” Max says, twisting to lean her side against the back cushion of the settee so she’s facing me.
“It pays the bills,” I say, then shake my head. No need to play it down with her. “It’s great. The fast-paced atmosphere of the office keeps me invigorated.”
“Your column is wonderful,” she says with a nod.
“You read it?”
“Every week,” she admits, the apples of her cheeks turning a bit pink.
“I read yours, too,” I say, and her eyes widen. “I can tell from your writing that you really love your job.”
“I do,” she says with a soft smile. “I get to meet the most interesting people who open their homes and their lives to me for a short while. I travel, eat at the best restaurants, and shop at the best boutiques.”
“Sounds glamorous,” I tease, and she laughs.
“I really can’t believe I get paid for it.”
“So, why this job?” I ask, lowering my voice so the others won’t hear me over their own chatter.
“His people reached out and asked if I’d like to apply for the job. I’ve never published a book like some people ,” she says with a teasing glint in her eyes, “but I write mini-biographies for the magazine all the time, so I accepted, thinking I’d be a good fit. Plus, it’s Barnard Roxberry. Anyone would kill for the opportunity to tell his story.”
I nod in agreement. Barnard’s people reached out to me in much the same way.
“My book isn’t exactly a tick in the pro column,” I say with a chuckle.
I self-published a book about an abandoned mining town in Nevada that boomed in the early nineteen-hundreds, but now sits empty save for the ghosts that reportedly haunt the old buildings as well as the mine, itself. It was a vanity project, something that really interested me, but didn’t particularly interest the reader market.
I want to ask Max if she read it, but at the same time, I’m terrified of her answer. What if she didn’t bother with it? What if she did ?
Nope. Not asking.
“So, where are you living now?” Max asks, thankfully changing the subject.
“Taking notes so you can stalk me after all this?” I ask, waving a hand around to encompass the yacht, the sea, and the island.
“Of course,” she says, completely straight-faced for a few beats until her grin breaks free.
“I have a condo in Los Feliz,” I answer. “You’re in Santa Monica, right? Close to the beach?”
“Now, who’s the stalker?” she asks, arching a brow at me.
“Milo mentioned it once,” I say with a shrug.
Milo hardly ever talks about Max to me, so anytime he mentions her, I commit every single detail to memory. I’m not even sure I do it on purpose. It’s as automatic as breathing.
She nods, saying, “My apartment is tiny, but the balcony faces the Pacific with a clear view of the water, so it’s worth the exorbitant rent I have to pay to live there.”
“There’s this amazing pizza place on Ocean Avenue,” I start, and she sits up with a gasp, cutting me off.
“Rosanti’s.”
“That’s the place,” I say.
“Their triple meat is to die for,” she says, swooning back against the couch cushions once more .
“You still order the same thing you did in college,” I say softly.
“You remember that?” she asks.
“I remember everything,” I say, then clear my throat. “We should hit Rosanti’s for dinner when we get back.”
“Flynn Nightingale, are you asking me out on a date?” she asks in a teasing voice.
“The first of many, I hope,” I say, exposing my metaphorical soft underbelly.
“I’d love to get pizza with you,” she whispers, and my insides warm.
“It’s a date,” I whisper back, and it takes every ounce of strength I possess not to lean over and kiss her right here in front of everyone.
A staff member appears, leaning down to murmur something to Barnard, who nods in response. The old man stands up, making sure everyone’s eyes are on him before he speaks.
“Captain Porter has dropped anchor so you all can cool off and enjoy the water. There’s a sandbar off the starboard side. We have chairs and tubes near the stern if you’d like to relax in the shallows. We also have snorkeling equipment if you’re feeling a little more adventurous. Have fun. Lunch will be served in two hours.”
By tacit agreement, Max and I wait to see what Lars and Peter choose before making our decision. The two men head straight for the snorkeling gear, and Max jerks her head toward the tubes with a questioning look on her face. I nod, and we each grab one before holding hands and jumping off the back of the boat into the clear, salty water.
I watch as she hoists herself over the float onto her stomach, then flips so her ass sinks into the hole in the middle like it’s no big deal. She watches me expectantly, and I try to copy the move. Only I don’t judge my strength correctly and end up sailing right over the thing to belly flop into the water. I hear Max’s tinkling laughter when I resurface, and I shoot her a stern look before trying again.
This time, I land in the right spot, but when I try to flip onto my back, the whole tube flips with me. I come up sputtering, and Max’s laughter is even louder this time. Baring my teeth and growling, I lunge in her direction. She squeals and tries to get off her float, but I’m on her before she can escape. Dipping beneath the surface, I grab the side of her float and push it up with all my might, flipping her off it with a clumsy splash.
I roar with victory as she pops up, her soaked red hair covering her face. I swim closer with a chuckle, pushing her hair back so I can see her pouting expression. Looking back toward the boat and seeing no one, I lean in and nibble at her bottom lip until she kisses me back, making my blood sing.
When we break apart, we’re both grinning. I gather our tubes, and we both end up floating in the center with them tucked up beneath our armpits, our feet teasing each other beneath the water and out of sight of anyone who might spot us out here.
After a while, we kick our way over to the sandbar where the water is shallow and sit on the tubes while the sun heats our skin. Max lets out a long, languid sigh, and I look over at her .
“This is so nice,” she says. “It’s like we’re all alone out here on our own private vacation.”
I decide right here and now that I’ll take her on a real vacation someday. Somewhere private and tropical like this where we can kiss and act like lovers without worry or scrutiny.
The yacht’s horn blows, startling us, and I awkwardly maneuver my way out of the tube to stand in the calf-deep water before giving Max a hand to help her out of hers. I hold onto her for a beat longer than necessary, and she squeezes my hand in response.
Once we’re back on the boat, we have to wait a few minutes for Lars and Peter to return before lunch is served. As soon as they arrive, the galley staff roll out a buffet cart laden with sandwiches, fresh fruit, bags of potato chips, and a variety of sodas, juices, and bottled waters. While I’m filling my plate, Barnard sidles up next to me to fill his own.
“Care to join me in my office for lunch, Flynn?” he asks, and I find myself looking up at Max, who’s busy filling her own plate across from me.
She heard the request, and nods at me with wide eyes to accept. Clearing my throat, I look over at Barnard.
“Of course. Lead the way.”
“Very good,” he says, then turns and makes his way into the interior area of the yacht.
Inside his office cabin, there’s a large desk as well as a small table flanked by two chairs. Barnard heads for the table, taking a seat and waving me into the other one.
“I really enjoy your writing style,” he says as we get to work unwrapping the cellophane on our sandwiches. “Not just your column, but your book, too.”
I freeze, my eyes widening for a moment before a chuckle erupts from my chest. “You read my book?”
“I did.”
“It only sold two copies. And I know one buyer was my best friend. I always wondered who the other was,” I say with another laugh.
I’m exaggerating, of course, but not by much. The endeavor really was a flop.
Barnard laughs at the joke, and I feel myself relax a bit. But my tension returns tenfold with his next question.
“And what of Miss Nolan?”
I swallow thickly. “What about her?”
His eyes pierce mine with a knowing look. “You were close in college. Wouldn’t an old friend read your book?”
“I…don’t know,” I say honestly.
She mentioned it earlier, but never said if she read it or just knows of its existence.
“That makes sense,” he says. “You apparently had some falling out and lost touch with each other over the last few years even though you’ve remained close with her brother, Milo.”
My head rears back before I can stop it. “How do you know all that?”
I knew he was aware of my previous acquaintance with Max, but that’s a lot of detail about something private he should have no knowledge of. He shakes his head and waves off my question.
“I have my ways of finding things out. Just like I know you two have seemed to bury the hatchet since arriving to Isle Halcyon. You worked together very well to solve the murder mystery.”
“We cleared up an old misunderstanding,” I say, my words slow and succinct.
Barnard nods. “That’s good.”
He drops the subject after that, asking me about some of the people I’ve interviewed for my column over the years. I answer each question a bit robotically, my mind still reeling over his observations about Max and me.
As soon as I can without being rude, I excuse myself and go in search of her. I find her in a chair near the stern, enjoying the bright sunshine as she sips on a bottle of flavored sparkling water.
“Hey,” she says, standing up when she sees me approaching. “How did it go?”
“It was weird,” I murmur, looking around to make sure no one else is near enough to hear. “He knew we had a falling out in college and haven’t had contact since. How did he know that? Has he had people investigating us?”
She looks a little startled, at first, then seems to calm. “Probably. I’m sure he had everyone investigated before inviting us all here.”
“You’re probably right,” I whisper, and she looks around before pressing a quick kiss to my lips.
“Thanks for telling me. This way I won’t be blindsided if he brings it up to me.”
“Like I was?” I quip, and she laughs .
“Better you than me,” she teases, then winks at me before skipping away.
I watch her go, my lips curving up into a wide smile. I love the way she teases me. How she always makes me feel better. Lighter. I need her in my life.
And I’m never going to let another fucking thing come between us. Of that, I am sure.