Chapter Twenty Roll with the Punches
Chapter Twenty
Roll with the Punches
Hayes
In the morning, I’m halfway through with my workout when Francesca wanders onto the sundeck in floral pajama pants. She notices me and stops in her tracks, her forehead creasing.
“I thought you weren’t coming with us.” Her fingers curl around her coffee mug, and she watches me stretch on the yoga mat.
We departed this morning and are now heading along the coast.
“It’s just to Monaco. We’ll be there in a little while.”
She shrugs, feigning indifference.
I finish the set of push-ups and move on to burpees. “You could join me, you know?”
She snorts. “I pulled a muscle just watching you.”
She’s settled into one of the plush armchairs, and she does seem to be watching me, her eyes lingering over my form.
“How’s Greta doing today?” she asks, bringing the coffee to her lips.
“I sent her a text last night. She’ll probably see it this morning. I’ll let you know.”
When I look over again at Francesca, who’s been awfully quiet for the remainder of my workout, I see she’s got her head in her hands and her skin has a pale-greenish tinge to it.
“Are you okay? You look gross.”
“Thanks,” she deadpans, shooting me a look.
I hold up both hands. “I’m honest, I’m not blind. Do you normally get seasick?”
She shrugs. “I’m not sure, I’ve never really been on a boat like this before.”
I abandon my cooldown stretches and rise to my feet. “Wait here. I have Dramamine in my toiletry kit.”
“What’s that?”
“A medication to treat motion sickness.”
A few minutes later, I return with the tablets and a cold bottle of water. “Take these, and let’s move you to the bow.”
She cracks open the water and takes the pills. “The what?”
I roll my eyes. “The front of the boat. It’s the best place to be if you start feeling queasy. Come on.”
I help her to her feet, and she leans against me as we walk.
We spoke a little at dinner, and I noticed things about her that I hadn’t before. Like how funny she was, how bright and witty.
Though to be honest, when she gave me the latest Wi-Fi network, I questioned if she was losing it with her little internet puns—there was nothing funny about Jesus—until I logged on last night and my computer popped up with the notification You are now connected to Jesus.
Well played, Frankie. Well played.
When we reach the bow, she sinks down onto the cushioned bench, and I decide to join her, since she looks miserable.
Like comically, pitifully miserable. She has her legs curled up, arms wrapped around herself, looking less like a woman and more like a discarded rag doll that’s been through a washing machine one too many times.
Her normally sharp mouth has been reduced to a thin, queasy line, and her eyes—usually bright with some kind of argument—are glassy and unfocused.
I lean against the table and cross my arms. “Did you have any breakfast?”
She nods. “Two croissants.”
“Two?” I question.
Her head rolls toward me with all the effort of a dying Victorian heroine. “Are you seriously here to mock me while I suffer?”
I consider that. “A little.”
She groans, dropping her forehead onto her knees. “You’re the worst.”
I smirk. “I’ve been called worse. All I was going to say was that carbohydrates are good for this sort of thing.” Then, because I don’t actually enjoy watching her turn green, I slide into the seat across from her. “You need a distraction. Tell me something weird about yourself.”
She doesn’t move, except for a weak hand gesture. “Too sick. No thoughts. Only death.”
I chuckle. “Fine, I’ll go first. I hate strawberries. They freak me out.”
That gets a reaction. She peeks up at me, frowning. “What do you mean freak you out?”
“They have seeds on the outside. That’s unnatural.”
She lets out a strangled noise that I think is supposed to be a laugh but sounds dangerously close to a dry heave. Her hand flutters toward her stomach. “Oh God. You’re making it worse.”
I try—really try—to keep a straight face, but she just looks so pathetic. All wrapped up in herself, groaning, wincing, fighting her own digestive system like it’s a personal enemy. It’s almost . . . cute.
The thought blindsides me.
Francesca, cute?
I shake it off. Probably just some weird instinctual sympathy thing. Or maybe I just like seeing her too out of it to hurl insults at me.
She rests her head in her hands and closes her eyes. “Just leave me here to die, I don’t want to bring you down with me.”
“Don’t be cute right now. That’s not helping.”
She cracks one eye open. “Helping what?”
My raging inappropriate crush on you.
“Nothing. Never mind.” I reach for a water bottle and shove it in her direction. “Here. Sip.”
She does, barely managing two swallows before glaring at me. “If I puke, I’m making sure some of it gets on you.”
I smirk, settling back. “Not if I throw you overboard first.”
That earns me a weak middle finger before she slumps back down. I roll my eyes, but—God help me—I’m still grinning.
Maybe she is a disaster. But for some reason, I don’t mind that as much as I used to.
Frankie lifts her head a few minutes later, blinking like she’s just woken from a coma. There’s still a little pallor to her face, but the sickly green tint is fading. Progress.
She exhales, slumping against the cushion. “Okay. I think I’m past the I’d-rather-die-than-exist phase.”
“Shame,” I say, smirking. “I was just about to start planning your sea burial.”
She glares, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re hilarious.” Then, to my surprise, she actually sits up and gives me a look that’s almost . . . appreciative. “You’re brilliant. Thanks for the meds, they were exactly what I needed.”
“You’re playing it fast and loose with the b-word, but you’re welcome.”
“And thanks for the distraction. And for not throwing me overboard. Very chivalrous of you.”
I tilt my head. “It was nothing, but since you’re officially back among the living, I believe it’s your turn.”
Her brows knit. “My turn for what?”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. “I told you something weird about me. Now it’s your turn to share a fun fact.”
She groans. “Ugh. Fine.” She thinks for a second, then mutters, “I can’t eat gummy bears.”
I blink. “What?”
“They’re too tragic,” she explains. “They have faces. And little stubby arms. I can’t bite into them without feeling like a monster.”
I stare at her. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
She shrugs. “Call it what you want, but I refuse to be responsible for the violent deaths of tiny, innocent bears.”
I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “So let me get this straight—you won’t eat gummy bears because they have faces, but you’ll eat, what, chicken nuggets? Steak?”
She waves a hand. “Those don’t have eyes looking back at me, Hayes.”
It’s so ridiculous, so her, that I just stare for a second. She’s still pale, still slightly wilted, but there’s a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. The same quick wit, the same unpredictable spark that’s always made her impossible to ignore.
I roll my eyes, but there’s no bite behind it. “You’re certifiable, you know that?”
She grins. “Yeah, but you just spent the last half hour making sure I didn’t die, so what does that say about you?”
I don’t have an answer for that. And that realization is the most unsettling part of all.
We sit in what can only be described as a comfortable silence—our first ever—for a few moments, both of us looking out at the horizon. It’s going to be a beautiful day, sunny with a light breeze.
“So why are you going to Monaco?” she asks.
“I need to pick up something. I always do a gift for my team each year at our big annual event, and I decided to do custom bottles of rosé. There’s this prestigious vineyard in Provence, and they’re engraving the bottles for me with their names and a short message.
They’ve sent them on ahead to Monaco for me. ”
“Wow, that’s generous of you.”
“It’s a splurge, but they deserve it.”
“Okay, Daddy Big Bucks.” She winks.
Call me Daddy one more time . . .