Chapter Fourteen
Cole
“Last event. Last push. Last million.”
Ivy Ellison lets the words hang for effect.
The Salty Old Sea Hag wallows beneath my boots, her planks groaning like a weathered sailor.
Metal clanks against metal with every swell.
This isn’t a tour boat—it’s a rescue vessel that’s been knocked around for decades and still gets back up.
The hum of the generator crawls up through the deck, and settles in my bones like a second pulse.
She’s a no-nonsense ship. She gets the job done.
Kind of like her crew.
Marine biologists and Dare4Change staff crowd the main level—some checking and rechecking equipment, all with untouched, lukewarm coffee in their hands.
Ivy taps the next slide.
“Your sole focus is the boat.” Her gaze sweeps us like she’s conducting a threat assessment. “We have one shot at this donation goal.”
Half the team is already standing straighter. Myself included.
“If we fail, we’ll all be hand-writing apology letters to every one of those sea lions.”
She points to the base of the cliffs, where the ship has dropped anchor. And above us—
A colony of sea lions.
Not a few. Hundreds.
Layered over the rock shelves like sun-drunk royalty, bodies piled on bodies, slick backs glistening, flippers draped wherever they fit. The rock face drops straight into the water. No beach, no buffer, only jagged stone plunging into the murky, shifting surface we’re floating on.
We’re essentially camping out in their living room.
ARF-ARF-brRAAAF! GRRRR-OOOONK! ORRRRP! ORRRRP!
Their barks sound like heckling. Echoing off the cliffs, bouncing down onto the deck. Tourists line the path up top, leaning over railings with their phones out.
The sea lions couldn’t care less.
Ivy paces in front of the crew, tablet in both hands. She’s not just leading the meeting…
She’s dominating it.
And Christ.
Those pants.
High-waisted navy, molded to the same curves I spent the night learning by touch.
The drag of her inner thigh against my hand, pulling her down onto me while she forgot how to breathe.
The slick heat of her against my fingers when I found exactly the right place and she finally stopped pretending she didn’t want it.
My body more than remembers. It’s cataloging it in agonizing detail.
And that white button-down? Fuck me. It pulls with every breath she takes, straining over the swell of her breasts. My hands are twitching because I know the weight of them. The way they filled my palms like they were made for me.
I’m crouched at the outer edge of the group, my camera rig wedged between my knees, threading the battery cable on autopilot. Meanwhile, every nerve I have is screaming to cross this deck and drag her back into my arms.
But this is the Ivy who doesn’t back down. The Ivy who doesn’t stop until she wins. Gone is the Ivy from eight hours ago, all red lace and trembling skin, eyes dark with the promise of letting me ruin her all over again.
My grip tightens on the camera rig, remembering the way she sounds when she climaxes.
RRRRIIIIPPPP.
The Velcro strap tears loose. Ivy shoots me an icy glare from across the deck. Her eyes dismiss me like I’m nothing but a distraction.
I should be double-checking the cable and transmitter on Dare4Change’s shiny new streaming rig. This isn’t just another shot. It’s the shot. My shot.
My job is to film these sea lions up close today. Show the world those cute whiskers and make them fall in love with the cause. Then, I hit them with this decaying ship, with its rusted edges and fraying ropes, and the audience will flood us with donations.
This is more than a livestream. It’s the reason this boat gets fixed and the reason these sea lions get another chance when danger inevitably hits.
If I nail this, if I make the internet feel it? That promotion is mine before the stream ends.
But right now? My gaze is glued to the pulse at the base of Ivy’s throat, thrumming like a damn drumbeat. I wonder if I’m the only one who notices, or if I’m just desperately hoping I haven’t already ruined my chance.
“Miss Ellison.” Orson’s hand shoots up. “You mentioned writing letters to the sea lions, but these mammals lack the neocortical development necessary for literacy, or, rather, any form of written communication.”
“She knows they can’t read, Echols!” Sienna shouts from the starboard rail, testing the tension on the rescue harness. “Let the woman work.”
Ivy gives Sienna a flicker of a smile, then says, “You are correct, Dr. Echols. Sea lions cannot read. But they can be disappointed, and I will not let this fundraiser tank on my watch. Moving on. We have two segments today, starting with the tour of the ship.”
She swipes to the next screen.
“We show donors exactly where their money will be used: repairs, equipment, functionality. Then we transition to the dinghy and film closeups of the colony in 4K.”
“Ha! Dinghy,” Blaze says, laughing, his loud Hawaiian shirt hanging open, his abs cutting down into his board shorts. “Dude, there’s no way that word’s real. That’s… no way.”
“It’s not fake,” Orson says. “It’s a nautical term.”
“Sounds like something you catch after a bad decision in Tijuana!”
“Blaze, the word dinghy has been around for centuries. It can mean a lifeboat, or a—”
Ivy shouts over them, “Six people per dinghy. Balanced entry, no sudden movements, and no standing once you’re in. We’ll shuttle to the rock line, and when we’re there, we do not disrupt the animals. We’re here to document their natural community. And that, everyone, is our grand finale.”
“No, Stopwatch. The order’s wrong.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can catch them.
Ivy’s stylus freezes. “Excuse me?”
“The underwater segment. I’m flagging it.” I keep my voice even. “The new gear hasn’t been tested at this depth. Between the rocks and the current, the signal’s going to get sketchy. If it drops, we lose the sea lions. Lead with the animals. We don’t gamble the main event.”
“Hmm. Interesting timing,” she says, her voice sweet enough to rot teeth. “Did this concern come to you before or after you pilfered my iPad?”
And there it is. The high-heeled boot to the chest I should have seen coming.
Every head in the galley pivots—not subtle, not obvious—just enough to drink it in.
And okay, fine. She’s right. Guilty as charged.
She told me to silence her alarm, gave me the code, and what was I supposed to do? Ignore the fact that her entire game plan was staring me in the face? I didn’t go looking for it, but yeah, I saw all of it.
Shot lists timed to the second. Timestamps synced to tide charts. A column labeled Bark Density vs. Viewer Retention, like that’s a normal thing to track.
And contingency plans for everything: choppy water, a panicked passenger, a sea lion breaching the safety perimeter, even if the freakin’ sun was too bright at noon.
Who the hell plans for all this?
Ivy, that’s who.
She reverse-engineered this whole campaign. The goal was three million dollars, so she broke it down into illustrated benchmarks. Live adjustments, replays, and memes were ready to drop the second donations slowed down.
Not a playbook. A damn military operation.
I thought I understood her job. I didn’t.
I was floored, with the kind of awe that knocks the wind right out of you. I’d sat on that bed, iPad in hand, trying to find the words to tell her she’s the most fucking brilliant person I’ve ever met.
Then the bathroom door opened, she saw the screen, and the moment went up in smoke. I couldn’t get a single word out.
“Cole,” Ivy’s voice pulls me back to the present. “I’m not rearranging the schedule based on a hunch about equipment.”
“It’s not guesswork. Signal degradation in—”
“I’ve run the numbers.” She holds the tablet up to the group.
“Viewer retention data across every comparable wildlife stream from the last eighteen months shows audiences love animal interactions. Views spike! The sea lion reveal is the finale because it’s the payoff.
You build the anticipation, you don’t play it upfront and hope people stick around for underwater B-roll. It’s called strategy.”
“If the stream drops during the underwater segment—”
“We’re sticking to my schedule because it’s an actual plan. With data.”
That hits exactly where she wants it to… On me.
Her eyes go sharp.
So do mine.
The galley goes quiet and even the sea lions stop barking.
“Uh, bros?” Blaze takes a step back, hand raised. “Is this still a work thing? It DEF stopped feeling like a work thing. Dr. O, back me up here. This feels like foreplay, right?”
“Positions!” Ivy orders. “Twenty minutes to live. Move!”
People scatter.
She marches to the starboard table, shoulders squared. Chin up. Every inch of her locking in. She’s flipping through a laminated checklist, thumb moving fast, eyes scanning, pretending not to see me approaching.
“We good to play nice today, Stopwatch?”
She flares at the nickname. Her head shoots up like I lit a fuse. I watch her brain spin, calculate and land (damn if it isn’t hot).
“Nice is not in my job description, Hartwell.”
“Neither is a hostile work environment, but here we are. Breaking all the rules.”
“And whose fault is that?” she fires back, her throat working once before she steadies.
“Let’s try not to turn this into a bloodbath before lunch. Can we work together today? No knives. No sabotage. Just the job.”
She goes still. “You’re asking me if I can be professional?”
“Only for the next five hours.”
“Tempting.”
“After that, feel free to ruin my life.”
Her mouth presses tight.
“Yes,” she says. “I can be professional. I can compartmentalize. I can pretend you’re not the man who spent last night inside my body mining me for strategy.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Right.” She nods once. “Because a man would never lie to get sex?”
She turns back to the table.
“I was admiring your strategy,” I say quietly. “I wasn’t snooping, Ivy. I was blown away by how hard you work.”