CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
“Leg cramp,” I lie, untucking my shirt. “Need to… ice it. Pulled something. Cold shower. Emergency ice situation!”
I flee like a teen boy trying to hide his erection from his grandma’s Bible study.
That smug little menace. A few filthy words, and I’m one grind away from combusting in my pants.
New plan: Build a fortress. Moats. Guards. Maybe a steel cage for my dick.
Because if she touches me again, I won’t just lose control—I’ll lose everything. Including my best friend.
***
“Behold! The sun spreads her golden thighs above the horizon, offering herself to the ocean’s thrusting waves!” Echo thrashes his paintbrush, splattering orange across the canvas. “Witness the sky’s erotic climax!”
I massage my temples and contemplate jumping overboard. We’re all held captive as Echo performs on the front deck. The yacht’s elite guests nod in agreement, calculating the millions his latest masterpiece will fetch at auction .
Since the salsa class catastrophe, I’ve executed a much-needed avoidance strategy. Four hours barricaded in my suite, drowning myself in quarterly projections, payroll documents, and IPO updates—whatever it took to scrub the memory of Petra’s body grinding against mine.
At dinner, I used Hana Choi as a human shield, positioning myself between her and Gavin.
Genius move, actually.
Hana proved to be the ideal distraction—a rambling, giggling chatterbox of low-effort conversation. For ninety minutes, she regaled me with riveting tales of her seventy-five-year-old fiancé‘s nightly skincare routine, his collection of vintage handkerchiefs, and his adorable sleep apnea.
The woman described his snoring patterns with the enthusiasm of a biologist discovering a new species.
Pure conversational white noise. Exactly what I needed.
Petra kept her distance—physically, anyway. But not with her eyes. The looks she shot me from the other side of the table? Volatile. A flash of challenge and promise in the curve of her lips. I kept my head down, playing the disinterested observer.
If I can maintain this tactical approach for the remaining wedding festivities—strategic seating, human buffers, mundane small talk—I’ll survive with no further lapses in judgment.
It’s a foolproof plan.
Except, I see Petra slipping away from the crowd like a master thief mid-museum heist. One second she’s lingering by the Miss Muffy–shaped ice sculpture. The next she’s rounding the corner—gone.
No one else has noticed Pip’s escape .
Stay put, my rational mind commands . Do not follow her. You’ve maintained boundaries all day.
But what if she trips in that gown? What if she leans too far over the railing? Someone should ensure she’s safe. It’s the responsible thing to do.
Everyone else is hypnotized by Echo’s creative breakdown. When he launches into a soliloquy about penetrating “the virgin canvas with my artistic seed,” I slip away.
I find her at the stern, leaning over the polished railing, her gaze fixed on the distant shoreline where carnival lights pulse like a neon heartbeat. Music echoes over the waves—mariachi trumpets and laughing voices from Puerto Vallarta’s summer festival.
The sight of her in that dress stops my heart mid-beat.
Nude silk that looks like liquid champagne poured over every damn curve, overlaid with intricate black lace. The off-shoulder cut shows off her collarbones, and the plunge flashes enough skin to ruin me.
When did Gavin’s rebellious little sister transform into such a temptress? As a teenager, she was all sharp edges and defiant energy—beautiful in an untamed, dangerous way. But this woman before me…
She’s a celestial storm sent to test every ounce of willpower I possess.
“Well, looky here. If it isn’t the man who spent dinner learning about geriatric respiratory disorders just to avoid eye contact.”
Caught red-handed .
“I was being polite to a fellow guest.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she says with those probing hazel-green eyes. “It had nothing to do with me turning you into a malfunctioning robot during class.”
“You’re overestimating your influence, Pip. I simply lack coordination when it comes to Latin dance.”
She rubs her arms. On instinct, I shrug out of my tux jacket and drape it over her shoulders.
“Thanks, Moneybags. Though I should warn you, accepting gifts from billionaires goes against my principles.”
“It’s a jacket.”
“That’s how it starts. First clothes, then jewelry, and before you know it, I’m getting weekly Botox and referring to my housekeeper as ‘the domestic staff.’”
A snort escapes. “Impossible. You’d never be open to that type of corruption. You’re too… you .”
The words hang between us, more honest than I intended.
We fall into comfortable silence, facing the shore where the distant carnival pulses with life. I study the way the lights twinkle and blur across the water.
“You know what’s ironic, B? Those people are probably blowing their grocery money on overpriced rides and street tacos, but they’re having more fun than anyone on this boat.”
“You think money makes experiences less… authentic?”
“I think when you can buy anything, nothing feels special.” She shifts, my jacket slipping off one shoulder. “Seriously, when’s the last time you wanted something and had to question whether you could afford it?”
“You assume because I’m wealthy that I have unlimited choices. ”
“That watch you’re wearing is worth more than most people’s houses.”
I glance down at the custom Patek Philippe—my grandfather’s watch. Four generations of Sterling expectations tick with every second.
“This watch comes with a price tag you can’t see. When you’re born with someone else’s ambitions, wanting things for yourself is a luxury that gets revoked.”
“Jesus. That’s the most beautiful description of a prison I’ve ever heard.”
“I never said it was a prison.”
“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your pretty face.”
“What about you? You’re quick to dissect everyone else’s motivations. What drives Petra Brinkman?”
“Easy. Justice, fresh coffee, and to never have to wear a bra again.”
I find myself fighting a smile. “That simple?”
“The best things usually are, Moneybags,” she says, something earnest flickering in her eyes. “I give you a lot of shit, but I’ll say this. You’re one of the good ones, Bryce.”
My stomach goes tight. She doesn’t know… I’m about to abandon her brother. Leave him to run our massive business alone. He’s not ready for that, and if she knew, she’d despise me.
For a beat, we’re just here. No distance, no flirting. I don’t know how she does it—those piercing eyes see through the crafted Sterling image and straight to the man underneath who doesn’t know what the hell he wants.
Except, I do know. I want to grab her midnight hair and suck the smart remarks off her tongue, savoring every syllable. I want to own that mouth .
I want to press her against this railing and show her how far she’s pushed me—how little of my self-control she’s left intact.
I’m burning for her. The intensity scares the hell out of me.
Her words from dance class rattle in my brain: “Do you fuck the way you kiss?”
The blunt honesty, the sexual challenge, the complete lack of coy games—women like her don’t exist in my world. She doesn’t want to acquire me—she wants to tear me apart.
I slide my hands into my pockets to resist her pull. “But seriously, what do you really want? Out of life, I mean.”
Her expression transforms, igniting with an awakened fierceness.
“I want to fight for people steamrolled by systems rigged against them. People who can’t afford good lawyers and deserve better.
The little guy who gets buried in red tape and legal jargon while corporations float away on golden parachutes.
I want to be the voice for everyone who’s been told to sit down and shut up because they don’t have the right connections, the right bank account, or the right anything. ”
She lets out a breath, shaking her head with a wry little laugh.
“Wow. Okay. TED Talk over. This conversation has gone way too deep for a yacht at sunset. We should be talking about vacation-y things, like, I don’t know…
how rich people act super weird on vacation.
Don’t you guys ever get shitfaced and just stare at tropical fish through a snorkel mask? ”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever observed marine life while under the influence of alcohol.”
“See?” She throws her hands up. “That’s tragic! You billionaires have no clue how to have normal human fun. It’s all privately curated tours and seven-course meals with unpronounceable names. Where’s the adventure? The spontaneity? The regrettable sunburn you bitch about for weeks afterward?”
Something reckless stirs in my chest. “You want adventure? Follow me.”
Five minutes later, we emerge from the glass elevator onto the bottom deck of the boat.
Spotting the camouflaged wall panel, I place my hand on the smooth, cool surface. With a silent whoosh, a section slides back, revealing a narrow spiral staircase that fades into darkness.
“Troublemakers first.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
The staircase curves downward, our footsteps echoing softly against metal treads. At the bottom, we step into a small circular room that resembles a high-end meditation pod. A single couch wraps around the entire space, one continuous curve of white cushions.
“Oh wow. A circle couch,” she deadpans.
“You still think I can’t impress you, huh? I find that oddly motivating. You wanted a fish adventure? How about one only billionaires get?”
Before she can fire off another smart-ass retort, I flip the master switch. The lights cut out, plunging us into inky blackness. Petra’s breath catches. Then— CLICK —the darkness outside is swallowed up by spotlights, flicking on, one by one.
The walls… aren’t walls at all.
They’re windows.
The entire circular room is encased in glass, a pod submerged beneath the ocean’s surface that offers panoramic views of the illuminated sea floor .
“Oh shit! Are we underwater?”