CHAPTER TEN #3
Miss Muffy stops in front of me, giving me a short, icy bark. I’m guessing it translates to “Bitch, how dare you copy my look on my ship. Who do you think you are?”
“Oh, Miss Muffy!” Fiona gasps. “I am absolutely mortified for you!”
The dog yips rapid-fire, her tiny body quivering with aristocratic outrage.
“What’s she saying now?” Hana asks.
Nigel clears his throat. “This is an unprecedented breach of vessel etiquette. Miss Muffy finds it deeply inappropriate that someone would wear her signature ensemble.”
“We are so sorry, honey!” Fiona coos to the dog, then places her gaze on me. “Petra! Go change this instant.”
I stare at the assembled group, waiting for someone to crack a smile or admit this is an elaborate prank.
Nobody does.
“You’re serious,” I say slowly. “You want me to put on a different outfit because I’m accidentally twinning with a dog.”
Every single person on deck—including my supposed brother—stares at me like I’m the one being unreasonable.
Miss Muffy delivers a final, authoritative bark as though to say: “Don’t forget who runs this ship. Begone, peasant!”
“Fine.” I throw my hands up in defeat. “I’ll go. Wouldn’t want to offend Her Highness.”
Honestly? I’m relieved to escape this circus. I need to wrap my head around the fact that Bryce is available now, decode his smoldering stares, and maybe— just maybe —not sabotage the only shot I have at happiness.
** *
“Fucking dog fashion police,” I hiss, stomping down the hallway as the yacht sways beneath my feet. “This whole billionaire week can kiss my ass. I’m done pretending this is normal.”
But then my brain—that traitorous bitch—circles right back to the image that’s been torturing me since I stepped onto this floating palace.
Bryce. His eyes drinking me in—
No! I stomp the mental brakes so hard, my thoughts screech.
The second I let myself think about the way his pupils dilated when I mentioned untying this bow, my thighs start quivering like they do when I’m about to make spectacularly bad decisions.
And my core? Already throbbing with its own goddamn heartbeat.
I scan the empty corridor, hearing the distant sounds of conversation and clinking glasses from above. The guests are probably playing boat bingo, or pin-the-tail on the servants, or whatever wild games the elite dream up for fun.
Which means this is prime snooping time.
I need to get my hands on Gavin’s prenup. The way Fiona’s face went all twitchy when I mentioned it? That wasn’t bride jitters. That was full-blown panic mode. Something’s rotten in the state of Gavin’s love life, and I’m going to figure it out.
A crew member appears around the corner and immediately tries to blend into the mahogany paneling like a chameleon.
“Excuse me,” I call out, switching to my most harmless I’m-not-about-to-ask-you-to-break-the-rules voice. “I’m in a bit of a bind here. My brother—Gavin Brinkman—asked me to send some emails from the laptop in his suite, but I’m a total idiot who forgot to grab his key, and now—”
“Not a problem, Miss Brinkman,” he says, unlocking a door halfway down the hall and stepping aside. “Will you need anything else?”
Seriously? That worked? I’ve seen tighter security at a Motel 6.
“All good, thanks,” I say, slipping inside and sealing the door behind me.
Without hesitation, I plop my enormous sun hat onto the table and flip open his laptop.
Password screen. Dammit.
I glare at it, hoping my sheer determination can will it to unlock. What would Gavin’s password even be? Some pretentious Warren Buffett phrase about compound interest? His favorite tax loophole spelled backwards?
The door swings open behind me. Shit.
I’m about to dive into the coat closet and pretend to be a very unconvincing jacket when… Bryce steps in.
“Thank you for helping me locate her.”
My heart starts doing that fluttery dance. I slow my breathing, trying to rein it in.
“You’re sneaking into your brother’s room. Do I want to know?” he asks, shutting the door.
I lift my chin, defiant. “Technically, so are you.”
“I caught the intruder. That makes me the hero of this story.”
His mouth quirks up, that almost-smile. Stop. Staring. At. His. Lips .
“Well, don’t get too excited about pressing charges. Turns out I’m a shitty spy. I can’t even guess his damn password.”
“Is this some good-natured sisterly snooping, or should I be prepping for a court subpoena?”
“Shh. Don’t ruin the surprise. You and my brother have never been to prison before, right?”
Bryce steps up to the laptop, and his fingers fly across the keyboard. The screen unlocks immediately.
“You know his password?”
“You do too.” He glances at me with impossibly blue eyes. “It’s your birthday.”
The words are a punch to the sternum. My birthday? The workaholic, perfectionist older brother uses my birthday as his computer password.
“Well, shit. Way to pour on the guilt, Moneybags.”
“Just pointing out that he loves you.”
“Yeah, conditional love. The ‘be a good girl and jump through the flaming money hoops’ kind of love.”
“Care to explain what you’re hunting for? We both know Gavin wouldn’t want you poking around.”
“Look at you, all suspicious and detective-y.”
Bryce levels me with an intense stare. “Pip.”
I roll my eyes, refusing to let him rattle me. “That stern billionaire glare loses some of its intimidating factor when you’re dressed like a retired surfer.”
“I’ll have you know this ensemble is quite liberating.”
I’m about to deliver a scathing comeback when I catch a detail on the screen—an email from Gavin’s lawyer .
The subject line reads: Whitfield-Brinkman Prenuptial Agreement - Pending Items.
“Their prenup?” Bryce reads over my shoulder. “First you suspect Fiona is having an affair, and now—”
Suddenly, we hear Gavin’s voice echoing through the corridor, growing louder. He’s on a call, and even through the closed door, his words are loud and commanding.
“Shit!” I slam the laptop shut right as footsteps settle by the door.
Without thinking, I grab Bryce’s arm and yank him toward the small coat closet. I shove him inside as the electronic beep indicates the door is unlocking.
I spot my sun hat sitting on the table like a giant “Petra was here” beacon.
“Fuck!” I whisper-yell, darting across the room.
I snatch it right as the door handle turns, throwing myself into the closet and closing the door.
The space inside is ridiculously small—barely big enough for one person, let alone two. We’re pressed together, chest to thigh. A sliver of light slips through the door frame. Bryce’s eyes sparkle in the dark, locked on to mine. His unsteady breathing matches mine.
I fumble for my phone, my hands shaking. I switch it to silent. The screen illuminates our faces in the tiny space. Bryce nods, pulling out his phone and doing the same.
Through the thin closet door, Gavin’s tone switches into pitching mode. “That’s exactly right, Marcus. Heartvest was built on the principle that financial literacy shouldn’t be a luxury reserved for the wealthy…”
I type a message to Bryce.
Me: He won’t be long. Promised Fiona no more work today .
Bryce nods, eyes fixed on me as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The butterflies in my stomach are having a flutter orgy as I write.
Me: Why did you wear that outfit?
He pauses.
Moneybags: Because I promised you I would. And… also figured I owed you after what happened yesterday.
Me: Owed me for what? An apology for the kiss, or for mistaking me for your girlfriend while you were sun-drunk?
His response comes lightning fast.
Moneybags: For taking something I had no right to take.
Me: What if I wanted you to, but I thought you were still with Amanda?
He starts to speak then catches himself.
Moneybags: Gavin told you.
Me: Yeah. Bright side, now I know you’re not a cheating dickhole.
Moneybags: Christ, Pip. That must have looked… I’m sorry. I never meant to put you in that position. The idea that you thought I could be that kind of man… I would never be unfaithful. Never.
Gavin’s muffled voice shifts gears. “Listen, Marcus, I better finish up. It’s my wedding week, and my fiancée is blowing up my phone. You know how it is—got to keep the future Mrs. Brinkman happy, or her old man will stick me with the catering bill!” His laughter fills the room.
My pulse hammers against my throat as I type out the question that could change everything.
Me: So yesterday in the jungle… was that a heat-induced hallucination, or did you ac tually want me?
He stares at his screen. I detect the telltale vibration of his anxious finger drumming against his leg. The nervous habit makes me bolder.
Me: Because… I want you.
I watch as the tiny dots on my phone appear and disappear—a dance of indecision. He writes, then deletes. Starts typing… and deletes again. Then, without warning, he powers off his phone like the conversation is over—and shoves it deep into his pocket.
Fuck. I pushed too hard. Way to go, Petra. I turn off my phone too, the little glow winking out as I shove it into the waistband of my stupid swimsuit.
The silence in the tiny closet is suffocating. I’m grateful for the darkness hiding the mortification burning my cheeks, the sting behind my eyes that I refuse to acknowledge.
And then, his hands capture my jaw and he seals his mouth over mine.
He’s kissing me.
The impact detonates my system like a nuclear bomb, sending shockwaves of heat and electricity racing through every nerve ending. When I inhale sharply against his lips, he takes ruthless advantage, his tongue sweeping inside with the kind of controlled aggression that makes my spine melt.
His grip shifts to my lower back, hauling me flush until we’re sealed together everywhere that matters. I sense the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, the tension coiled in his muscles through that ridiculous Hawaiian shirt.
My arms lock around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, and that’s when I feel the rigid length of his arousal branding my hip bone .
A quiet whimper escapes my throat before I can stop it.
He retreats immediately, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers, “Easy, Pip. You have to stay quiet for me.”
The endearment in that gravelly whisper unravels me. Then his teeth graze my earlobe, and my knees buckle. His lips blaze a trail down my throat, each kiss a promise that has me trembling. I’m drowning in sensation, in his sandalwood scent, in the heat that’s radiating from his body.
Oh fuck. I’m going to come. His hands are finally on me, and I swear to God I’m going to come. The sheer intensity obliterates every midnight fantasy I’ve tortured myself with, every desperate moment when I’d close my eyes and pretend.
His hands slide over my body—rough, greedy. Like he can’t decide if he wants to memorize every inch or devour me whole. But he’s not tearing at the swimsuit like he’s aching to get inside me. He’s savoring. Licking, sucking, breathing me in as if he’s waited years for this moment like me.
Every place he touches comes to life, my skin pebbling, tremors racing through my body like aftershocks. My nipples are straining against the fabric of my swimsuit. I arch greedily into him, pressing my chest against his so he knows exactly what I need.
He lets out a rough, needy breath that sends my core clenching.
I reach between us with shaking fingers and grab his wrist, guiding his hand to the giant white bow on my chest.
He understands immediately. His fingers work the fabric loose, and the bow falls open like a present being unwrapped. He gently pushes the material aside, and cool air hits my exposed skin.
I’m half-naked in a coat closet with Bryce Sterling, having my seven minutes in heaven. I could die of happiness .
His finger starts its descent from my throat, drawing lazy patterns between my naked breasts before tracing the curve underneath one. His palm cups the weight of me, and then his thumb is stroking across the hardened peak in devastating slow motion—
WHOOSH!
The door to our secret hideaway swings open.
Light explodes in. I yank the swimsuit fabric across my chest.
“My deepest apologies, Mr. Sterling. Miss Brinkman.” The staff member is mortified. “I was fetching Mr. Brinkman’s dance shoes. I’ll return later.”
“No need,” Bryce replies smoothly. He steps out and pulls a blazer from a hangar. “Petra, put this on.”
Now in proper lighting, our intimate encounter is written all over him. Bryce’s hair is wildly disheveled, sticking up at impossible angles. His lips are swollen and painted fire-engine red from my Wet n’ Wild lipstick. Scarlet smudges decorate his neck where I marked my territory.
And somehow, those god-awful tourist clothes make the whole picture even more mouth-watering.
The worker snatches the shoes and flees as if the room’s on fire.
Bryce finger-combs his makeout hair . “I believe we’re supposed to be at some sort of dance instruction.”
“Oh. Right. Dancing.” I glance down at his very prominent erection protruding in his ridiculous shorts. “You planning to tango like that?”
“I require a few minutes to… address the situation.” He stops at the door, shoulders rigid. “Petra, this… We need to put a pause on this. Be logical. For your brot her’s sake.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me standing in a borrowed jacket, half-naked, and completely wrecked. My brain is a tornado of lust and confusion, but one thing is crystal fucking clear through all the noise:
Fuck that noise.
That man just gave me a preview of the main event and thinks he can call intermission? Wrong. Dead wrong. I’ve waited ten long years to feel Bryce Sterling lose control.
There is only one way this ends. With him buried deep inside me, consequences be damned.