Chapter 39 #2
Breakfast lingers between us, warm plates pushed aside, our legs tangled under the tiny teak table. The yacht hums softly beneath us, slicing smooth through the morning water. Dane leans back in his chair with one ankle hooked over his knee, staring at me like I’m something he’s been starving for.
I sip orange juice, watching sunlight dance in the glass. “This…feels unreal.”
“It’s just breakfast, Peach.”
“On a yacht.”
He smirks. “On our yacht.”
My stomach flips. The way he says it, like it’s normal, like it’s nothing, like it’s just another morning he always hoped we’d share.
He stands and offers me his hand. “Come on. You need to see something.”
I slide my fingers into his. They fit. God, they fit.
He leads me to the bow where the world stretches open, open sea ahead, the vast harbour behind us, the faint outline of the marina waiting like a promise. The breeze lifts the ends of my still-damp hair. Salt mist kisses my skin.
Dane stands behind me, one hand resting against my hip, fingers hooking into the fabric of my shorts like he needs the anchor.
“Welcome,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear, “to the stupidly expensive part of my life I’ve never given a shit about until right now.”
I laugh softly. “Right now, because…?”
“Because you’re in it.”
My heart squeezes. I grip the railing and breathe.
The yacht drifted toward the marina an hour later, sun catching the water in long shards of light.
I felt the soft ache of leaving the cocoon we’d made on board.
Below the deck, I hear the skipper, moving, checking things, preparing for docking.
Soft thuds, ropes shifting, the familiar routine of men who live on the water.
The yacht slows. The Skippers voice rings up around. “Ten minutes to dock, Mr. Stark.”
Dane nods. “Perfect.”
He turns to me, brushing a stray curl from my face. “You good?”
“I think…better than good.”
His smile is slow, private. “Yeah. Me too.”
The gentle thrum beneath our feet changes pitch as we enter the sheltered marina waters. Everything softens, the waves, the wind, the motion. It's like being lowered into another world.
Dane’s fingers trail up my spine. Not sexual. More like reassurance. More like a reminder: I’m here. You’re safe. We start again from here.
The yacht begins turning slowly, angling toward the marina. Water churns, white foam curling like lace.
My chest tightens.
Going back to land means going back to reality.
He must feel it in the way my shoulders stiffen. Dane’s hand slides up to my neck, warm, grounding. “I’ve got you, Peach.”
I nod. “I know.”
“And today…we don’t let anything touch you. Not Blake. Not the past. Not anyone.”
The fierceness in his voice cuts through the wind. Protective. Near-angry. Controlled, but only just.
I swallow.
As the marina grows closer, the world seems to sharpen, the masts, the busy walkways, the shimmer of other yachts bobbing in their berths. People appear in the distance. Crew prepping boats. Early fishermen. Tourists meandering like sleepy birds.
Normal life. I’m so not ready for.
The yacht is docked, engines quiet, but neither of us moves to leave. The world feels soft and suspended, like we’re wrapped in the last threads of our night.
Dane sits across from me now, knee brushing mine, coffee in hand. The morning light hits him just right, bronze skin, dark hair ruffled, jaw shadowed from sleep and stress and something like relief.
He looks…young. Human. Breakable. Coated in stillness. A stillness my body aches for. Finally, he clears his throat as I look over from the open sea behind us to meet his eyes. “Time, we got off the water, Peach.”
I close my eyes slowly, taking a long, deliberate inhale, and on the exhale, I murmur, “God… if we must.”
His small chuckle warms me, a gentle friction against the tension still coiled in my chest.
“Peach, we could live on this boat after today… If you want.”
My eyes widen at the weight of his words.
“Hell, yes,” I whisper, “away from the world… from all the over-dramatic noise of it.”
“If that’s what you want, Peach,” he says softly, “that is what we will do.”
I hold his gaze, a small edge of sadness threading through my voice as I say, “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
The words are soft, almost fragile, but in that single breath, they hold everything. And it feels like choosing sunlight over shadow.
Dane stays close, one hand resting on my back, guiding me as I step onto the dock, moving with the careful reverence of someone carrying the most precious thing he’s ever known.
Peter waited with a warm smile, hands clasped behind his back.
“Peter,” Dane said, “we need to stop at the florist before heading to Penn’s.”
“For Miss Penn,” Peter nodded, “and for little Gracie.”
My breath hitched.
Dane’s eyes flicked to me instantly. Reading me. Checking me. Anchoring me.
“If that’s okay,” he murmured softly.
I nodded. My voice wouldn’t work.
The florist was quiet, full of warm colours and petals. Peter returned with two bouquets, one for me, bright and soft, one for my daughter’s grave, white and pink.
Dane placed both gently in my lap.
The drive home was peaceful. Warm sun. Soft music. Dane’s thigh brushing mine. Peter humming off-key in a way that comforted me irrationally.
When my house came into view, my home, my memories, my ghosts, something inside me settled and trembled at the same time.
Dane reached over and squeezed my hand once, quietly.