5. Dana - Picture Perfect
Chapter Five
DANA - PICTURE PERFECT
N athan Clarke is infuriating.
He’s also too attractive for his own good, which is probably why he thinks testing my patience is a game. That smirk from this morning—arrogant, knowing, like he could read every single thought I’ve been trying to suppress—has been haunting me all day.
And worse? He’s right to be smug. Because I can’t stop thinking about it.
I hate the way my mind keeps circling back to how he held me when we danced, the way his voice lowered when he murmured in my ear. I hate that my skin still tingles where his hands had been, that my pulse betrays me when he leans in too close.
I hate that pretending to be his other half feels too easy. Too natural. Too real.
And yet, across the deck, his gaze keeps finding mine.
I tell myself it’s just the act, just the game he loves playing. But the longer we hold each other’s stare, the harder it is to convince myself that I’m the only one feeling this pull.
The yacht glows under the fading sunset, the water rippling with streaks of molten gold and fiery red. Its serene beauty is at odds with the storm building in my chest. Across the deck, Nathan leans against the railing, wine glass in hand, looking far too relaxed. He talks casually with Harris and his wife, probably trying to close the deal before the trip ends, but his gaze keeps finding its way to me. I watch him look over to check on me three or four times before he winds up excusing himself to approach me directly.
“You’ve been quiet,” he observes, his voice slicing through the soft hum of the motor in the ocean.
I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize I was part of the entertainment tonight.”
“Not always,” he replies, his gaze lazy and assessing. “But I like knowing what’s going on in that head of yours.”
“You’d be disappointed,” I counter, taking a sip of my wine.
“Try me.”
The challenge grates on my nerves, but it also stirs something deeper—a pull I still refuse to acknowledge. I take a moment to process his words. As I do, I remain still as the evening breeze blows the hem of my dress against my legs. The fabric tickles, and I’m grateful that I managed to shave recently.
I decide not to engage further with the conversation. Because running is always something I’m great at.
“I’m going for some air,” I announce, heading to the far end of the deck.
I don’t have to look back to know he’s watching me. The fabric of my dress continues to swirl around my legs as I walk, and I wonder if I look as powerful and mysterious as I feel. The air is cooler here, tinged with salt. Waves lap rhythmically against the hull. I’m grateful for the cardigan I grabbed from the room earlier—the late-night articles on boating that I read the night before our trip really did come in handy. And I thought I was being excessive. I close my eyes, hoping the quiet will drown out the tension tightening inside of me.
Of course, it doesn’t.
“Running away, Dana?”
I didn’t hear him approach, but his voice is closer than expected. I turn to find him standing with his hands in his pockets, with that damn smirk on his face.
“Maybe I needed space,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. My empty wine glass had been taken by a member of the crew in my brief time away from him .
He gasps in feigned offense. “From me?”
“Yes, from you,” I snap, sharper than I intend.
His smirk falters, replaced by something quieter. More guarded. The mask slips—just for a second. He steps closer and it’s gone, replaced with his usual, effortless confidence.
“You’re always so quick to push me away,” he says quietly. “Why is that?”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Because five minutes with you is enough to make anyone want to strangle you.”
His lips twitch into a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Is that really it?”
“What else would it be?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he closes the space between us until there’s only a whisper of air left. My pulse kicks up, and I pray that he can’t hear it.
“You tell me,” he presses, his voice low.
I open my mouth, ready to fire back some witty retort, but the words catch in my throat. He’s too close. Close enough that the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw catches the dim light. Close enough that his heat mingles with the cool air, pulling me in.
“This is a bad idea,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face as I repeat my flimsy protestation from earlier. “Probably,” he says, echoing his prior response, but he doesn’t step back. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I open my mouth to say… something.
“Nathan—”
His lips capture mine, cutting off the rest of my thoughts.
This kiss is not soft. It’s deliberate and consuming, like he’s daring me to stop him. My body betrays me; my arms unfold and my hands grip the front of his shirt before I can think better of it. His hands find their way to my hips, firmly holding me in place. I wonder if he’s trying to control himself as much as I am.
The taste of wine lingers on his lips, but it’s the intensity—the way he kisses like he’s staking a claim—that sends heat spiraling through me.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, and the silence between us is charged. Both of us pause, and his chest is heaving as deeply as mine. Good. It feels like neither of us want to break the silence first, but self-preservation alarms begin blaring in my mind.
“That,” I say shakily, “was a terrible idea.”
“Maybe,” he replies, his lips brushing mine as he speaks. “But you didn’t stop me.”
I close my eyes, trying to gather the pieces of my shattered composure. I ask the only thing on my mind: “What are we doing, Nathan?”
“Whatever this is,” he says, his voice rough from keeping it low, “it’s real. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it, too.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
He draws back, his thumbs circling on the fabric at my waist. A teasing touch, deliberate and devastating. My body leans towards his, instinct over logic, and I hate it.
I hate how much I miss the warmth of his lips already.
I shouldn’t. I can’t.
This is a game, a performance, a means to an end. But if that’s true, why is my pulse hammering against my ribs like I’m the one about to lose something? Why do I feel like if I let this moment slip away, I might regret it?
His fingers flex, tension coiling in his grip as if he’s waiting—waiting for me to decide.
A choice. A simple one. One word, and this stops.
“Dana,” he murmurs, softer now, almost unsteady. “Tell me to stop, and I will. But if you want this…”
His words trail off, heavy with unspoken meaning.
I should say no. I should walk away. Pretend this never happened.
But then he looks at me. Like I’m the only thing that matters. Like if I stepped back, he’d let me go—but he doesn’t want to.
And that’s what ruins me.
“I hate you,” I whisper, but there’s no venom in it.
His lips quirk, thumb tracing slow circles on my hip. “I know.”
The air between us hums, charged and ready to combust. I can’t take it anymore.
This time, I’m the one to close the gap.
Frustration. Tension. A desperate collision. The moment our lips crash together, it’s raw and electric—white hot, dangerous, a live wire sparking between us. It’s not just a kiss. It’s a release, a breaking point that neither of us saw coming but both of us needed.
My hands slide up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. My fingers scrape up into his hair, thick at the roots but softer than I expected. My grip tightens and his arms cage me in, pressing me against him like he’s daring me to let go first.
I don’t.
He tastes like wine and ruin, like something I should resist but don’t. Like something I never stood a chance against.
It’s reckless, dangerous—but I can’t bring myself to stop.
The waves crash softly against the yacht, and for once, they match the chaos inside me.
Later, the dining hall on the boat glows softly, the warm lighting bouncing off the polished silverware and glasses of wine. People chat around us, but I’m hyperaware of Nathan by my side. His presence is all that I can focus on, and luckily no one has directly engaged me in conversation. His deep laugh cuts through the hum of conversation, drawing smiles from nearby tables.
As dessert is served, someone at another table leans over. “You two are such a beautiful couple,” the woman gushes, her hands clasped together.
I smile, leaning into Nathan instinctively. “That’s so sweet of you,” I reply, keeping my voice light and warm.
The woman’s husband nods. “You just have that… connection. Like you’re perfectly in sync.”
Nathan’s arm moves to rest behind my chair, his fingers brushing my shoulder. It’s a light touch, but I feel it everywhere. “We try our best,” I say smoothly, forcing myself to stay composed.
A photographer hovers nearby, camera at the ready. They’ve been capturing moments throughout the retreat, blending into the background like they belong in every frame. Now, they pause in front of us, their gaze sharp with recognition.
“Mind if we grab a photo? You’re both just… picturesque. It’ll be perfect for the retreat’s album.”
I tilt my head up at Nathan, my lips curving into what I hope is a natural smile. “Well, darling? Shall we?”
His answering grin is too perfect, too practiced. “Anything for the memories,” he agrees, resting his hand lightly against my back.
We pose, the flash of the camera momentarily blinding. His hand stays on me a beat longer than necessary, and when we pull apart, I catch his gaze lingering on mine. My pulse flutters, but I mask it with a sip of wine.