Chapter Twenty-Two Don’t Rock the Boat
Chapter Twenty-Two
Don’t Rock the Boat
Frankie
The morning sun glints off the still water of the marina, the air crisp and carrying the faintest scent of salt. It would be a perfect morning—if not for the fact that I’m currently trapped at a breakfast table with him.
Hayes looks obnoxiously well rested and freshly showered, his dark hair slightly tousled in a way that probably costs a fortune at some fancy salon but just happens naturally for him.
He sips his espresso, flipping through something on his phone like he didn’t waltz in with a baby-faced supermodel last night.
I’ve noticed a pattern. The idea of having a “type” is that you’re attracted to something familiar.
So being wealthy and thin and emotionally immature is somehow comforting and familiar to him.
I guess in the same way that my type is bad boys or jerks because I never knew my father and probably stored up buried anger over that fact.
Clearly neither of us knew jack squat about picking an appropriate partner—something we had in common.
Charles, blissfully unaware, takes a bite of his omelet and glances between us. “You look upset,” he says to me. “Did something happen?”
I stab my fork into a piece of fruit, leveling my gaze at Hayes. “Oh, nothing,” I say airily. “Just a lot of movement last night. Did you feel the boat rocking?”
Charles frowns, thoughtful. “No, actually. It was pretty still—” His expression shifts to realization. “Oh. Ohhh.” He sighs, rubbing his temples. “Hayes, for God’s sake, did you really—”
“Relax,” Hayes drawls, annoyed. “Nothing happened.”
I snort. “Right. Because men frequently bring drunk models back to their rooms just for a deep, intellectual discussion on the state of the world.”
Hayes sets his espresso cup down and leans back in his chair, his gaze lazily sweeping over me. “Maybe we debated the merits of modern art,” he says, lips twitching. “Maybe we discussed philosophy and the fleeting nature of human connection.”
I roll my eyes so hard I practically see my brain. “Sure. And maybe I moonlight as a NASA engineer in my free time.”
“Do you?” He cocks a brow. “Because that would explain your ability to launch into orbit over something that’s absolutely none of your business.”
My mouth falls open. “I am not—” I snap my jaw shut, because okay, maybe I was being a little dramatic. But that’s beside the point.
Charles sighs again. “Frankie, please don’t take the bait. I just woke up. I don’t have the energy for your feud right now.”
Hayes smirks at me like he’s already won. I glare back at him, but my irritation is cracking under the weight of Charles’s stony look.
Then, as if on cue, Hayes reaches for the croissant basket at the same time I do, and our fingers brush. I snatch my hand back like I’ve been electrocuted.
Hayes lifts the basket and offers me the last croissant. “Truce?”
I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “I hate you.”
“And yet,” he muses, taking a bite, “you keep ending up at my breakfast table.”
I narrow my eyes at him, then grab my coffee and take a long, slow sip. “I’m just waiting for you to choke on that.”
He chuckles, and damn it, so do I.
“Well, if you excuse me, I have an errand to run in Monaco today,” Hayes says, rising to his feet.
I remember the case of fancy wine he told me he was picking up.
I ball up my napkin and toss it onto the table.
Charles frowns at me once Hayes is gone. “Are you sure you’re not mad that he’s dating this girl?”
A short, irritated laugh escapes me. “They’re not dating, believe me. They’re sleeping together. And no, I’m not mad. Why would I be mad about that?”
He shrugs. “That’s what I was trying to figure out.”
When Hayes returns several hours later, I’m stretched out on one of the lounge chairs on the aft deck, flipping through a book I’m barely reading. He strolls up like he owns the place—which, technically, he does.
He’s freshly showered, wearing a crisp white button-down with the sleeves pushed up, the top two buttons undone like some kind of Monaco playboy starter pack.
“Get up,” he says, nudging the lounge chair with his foot.
I peer at him. “Wow, charming. That line usually work?”
His lips twitch. “We’re going out.”
I blink. “We?”
“Me. You. Some of the deck crew. Try to keep up. We’re going to Monte Carlo for drinks and dancing.”
I lower my book fully, trying to gauge if he’s messing with me. “Since when do you invite me to things?”
He exhales dramatically. “Since I decided you could use a break from . . . whatever it is you do all day.” He gestures vaguely at my book. “Reading War and Peace or whatever.”
I flip the book around and pretend to read the title. “A Beginner’s Guide to Not Murdering Your Annoying Yacht Mate.”
His mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh. “Catchy.”
“And what makes you think I’d want to go anywhere with you?”
He grins, like he was hoping I’d say that. “Because you’ve been in France for days and have yet to experience anything but the inside of this yacht.”
I cross my arms. “That’s not true. I went into town yesterday.”
“You bought sunscreen and then came right back.”
Damn it. He notices things.
“Come on,” he continues, his voice taking on that smooth, coaxing quality that probably makes business deals—and women—fall right into his hands. “We’ll drink, we’ll dance, we’ll pretend to like each other for an evening. It shouldn’t be too challenging, should it?”
His dark eyes glimmer with hidden thoughts I’m sure he’ll never reveal.
Colette emerges from below deck, overhearing just enough to perk up. “Did you say clubbing?”
Hayes nods. “VIP table.”
She gasps. “Oh, hell yes.” Then she frowns. “Wait—what’s the dress code?”
Hayes shrugs. “Expensive.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course.”
Jack, one of the deckhands, strolls past and catches wind of the conversation. “We’re going out?”
Hayes jerks his chin in confirmation. “Better bring your best shirt, mate.”
Jack grins and fist pumps before jogging off, presumably to alert the rest of the crew.
Kira, one of the deckhands, appears from the galley, looking effortlessly cool in a slinky black dress. “You coming, Frankie?”
I glance between them, considering my options. I hesitate. It’s not that I don’t want to go—but Monaco nightlife? That’s an entirely different universe.
Hayes watches me, head tilting slightly. “What, scared you won’t be able to keep up?”
And that is all it takes.
I snap my book shut and push to my feet. “Give me ten minutes.”
Hayes grins, stepping back to let me pass. “Take your time.”
I brush past him with a huff, already mentally sifting through my suitcase for the kind of dress that says I belong in Monte Carlo, even if I absolutely don’t.
By the time I come back up, everyone is already gathered at the gangway. Charles is sitting this one out, of course—someone has to be the responsible adult—but the rest of us? We’re about to step into a world of flashing lights, overpriced champagne, and more bad decisions than I care to count.
I smooth my dress, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the weight of Hayes’s gaze. He leans casually against the railing, but there’s something different in the way he’s looking at me.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says, voice low.
It throws me for a second—long enough for my stomach to flip before my brain reminds me this is Hayes. Annoying, smug, disaster-waiting-to-happen Hayes.
I roll my eyes, covering whatever just sparked in my chest with a bored look. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
He pushes off the railing, still watching me. “Oh, I’m not.”
And just like that, I have a feeling Hayes Winters will be right at the center of every bad decision I make tonight.
I hug Charles goodbye and follow the group.
Perched above us, the lights of Monaco twinkle in the distance.
Kira and Jack lead the way, sharing a bottle of wine between them and talking loudly.
Colette and Sebastian are next, then me, followed by Hayes, who’s looking at me funny as I navigate the stairs in heels.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I release a sigh. “I’m wearing a thong.” Which has migrated practically inside me.
“Oh—kay?” He sounds confused.
“I’m normally a granny panty type of girl,” I say by way of explanation.
The crease in between Hayes’s eyebrows only deepens.
“Never mind,” I settle on.
Tessa would understand. She often makes fun of my underwear choice and would get what a monumental occasion this is.
One that is never going to happen again, by the way, because these things are terrible.
I’d rather have a root canal while being run over by a car than shove dental floss up my ass ever again.
“You’re sure not like the other girls, are you?” he says, shaking his head. I can’t tell based on his tone if he finds it oddly refreshing or just odd.
I shrug and keep walking, moving past him while trying not to notice how good he smells. Dear God . . .