Chapter 19
YACHT TO KNOW BETTER
VICTOR
The next morning, the sun is barely up before I'm standing in the galley kitchen of a catamaran off the coast of Santa Barbara, staring at a coffee maker like it holds the answers to questions I shouldn't be asking.
It's been approximately eight hours since I asked Harper Beaumont to be my girlfriend on the deck of this boat. Eight hours since she said yes. Eight hours since I walked her to her cabin, left her at the door like a gentleman, and proceeded to have the worst night of sleep in recent memory.
The November sun off the California coast is the stuff made of dreams, and I feel like I’m living in one.
It’s a dream to be in the same vicinity as the woman who’s been inching her way into my heart.
And it’s also a nightmare.
Because the ocean beneath us may be calm and deceptively peaceful.
But I am not.
Because I spent the entire night in my cabin, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Harper sleeping twenty feet away.
Thinking about how easy it would be to walk down that hallway and turn that doorknob. How easy it would be to slide into bed beside her, put my arms around her, and finish what we started in the presidential suite at the Bellagio.
I didn't do it.
Because I'm a gentleman. Because she asked me to take things slow. Because despite being married to her for a month, we're "dating" now, which means rules and boundaries and not giving in to every impulse my body is screaming at me to follow.
The coffee maker beeps, and I pour myself a cup, leaning against the counter, as I remind myself of the agenda I mentally crafted this morning.
One: Maintain Control.
Two: Be the CEO.
Three: Don't think about Harper in that lavender dress.
Three and a half: Don't think about the way she looked at me when I asked her to be mine.
Three and three quarters: Don't think about the fact that she's probably still asleep in a cabin twenty feet away, wearing God knows what, and I could just—
My phone buzzes on the counter.
I grab it, grateful for the distraction.
ROMAN: Heard you punched your brother in the face. Please tell me this is true.
I almost smile despite everything.
Roman Ellis. One of my closest friends from Harvard Business School. The self-made billionaire who built NutriFlow into a meal delivery empire and is getting married in three weeks to a woman who probably deserves better than him.
And the bastard wants to talk about a fight like we’re still on a school playground.
ME: News travels fast.
ROMAN: Richard Francis apparently has a big mouth. Word reached Christian late last night. Christian called me. I'm now calling you to confirm.
ROMAN: Did you actually deck Alexei?
ME: Yes.
ROMAN: In front of board members?
ME: Yes.
ROMAN: At a business dinner on his yacht?
ME: Technically the yacht was Richard's. But yes.
Three dots appear. Then—
ROMAN: I'm so fucking proud of you right now.
ME: It was unprofessional.
ROMAN: It was PERFECT. That svoloch had it coming.
I note that Roman just used the same Russian word Babushka uses for my father. They've never met, but apparently they're aligned on my family's character assessment.
ROMAN: Did you at least get a good hit in?
ME: Mighta broke his nose.
ROMAN: EXCELLENT. Christian owes me five thousand dollars.
ME: You bet on whether I'd hit him?
ROMAN: We bet on whether you'd hit him HARD ENOUGH to do damage. I said yes. Christian said you'd pull the punch because you're "too controlled."
ME: Tell Christian he doesn't know me as well as he thinks.
ROMAN: Already did. He's sulking. It's hilarious.
I take another sip of coffee, and despite the chaos of last night, I feel my mouth curve slightly.
ROMAN: So. The acquisition?
ME: Dead.
ROMAN: And you're okay with that?
I pause, considering the question.
Am I okay with it?
I just lost a hundred-million-dollar deal. Patricia Franklin and the board are probably already drafting my termination paperwork. Rachel is going to simultaneously attack me and have an aneurysm when I tell her.
But I walked away from Alexei, from Isabelle. From Richard Francis and his manipulative bullshit.
I chose Harper over the deal.
And I'd do it again.
ME: Yes. I'm okay with it.
ROMAN: Who are you and what have you done with Victor Kade?
ME: Funny.
ROMAN: I'm serious. The Victor I know would have sat through that dinner, smiled through gritted teeth, and closed the deal. What changed?
ME: I met someone.
Three dots. Then—
ROMAN: The wife?
ME: Harper. Yes.
ROMAN: And she's... what? Different?
I think about Harper on the plane, falling apart during turbulence and letting me hold her. Harper in the suite, challenging me, pushing back, refusing to be intimidated. Harper last night, kissing me after I destroyed my career prospects, telling me I made the right choice.
ME: Yes. She's different.
ROMAN: Different how?
ME: I don’t know. Just different
I think about Harper, continuing to text, a smile slowly spreading on my face.
ME: With her, I don’t have to put on airs. Have to pretend. Have to be such an insufferable hard-ass. I can just…be.
ROMAN: Be what? A love-sick, brother-punching normal guy?
ME: Now that you put it that way? YES
ROMAN: Fuck. You've got it bad.
ME: Probably.
ROMAN: Good. You deserve it. Welcome to the club.
ROMAN: Christian and I will get you a Members Only jacket when you’re ready. And speaking of ‘members only’—are you coming back for Thanksgiving?
I blink at the screen.
Thanksgiving.
Today is Thursday. Thanksgiving is exactly one week away.
ME: I hadn't thought about it.
ROMAN: Well, think about it. Christian and I are heading to his Nonna's book club thing to cook we all did before. You should come again. Bring Harper.
ME: To a book club?
ROMAN: It's not just a book club. It's an Italian grandmother cooking experience disguised as a book club. There will be wine. Pasta. Probably some light interrogation about your life choices. It's perfect.
ME: That sounds like my personal hell.
ROMAN: That's because you're an emotional dumpster fire. Come anyway.
ME: I'll think about it.
ROMAN: That's Victor-speak for "yes but I'm going to pretend I'm too cool to commit." I'm telling Nonna you're coming.
ME: SLOW YOUR ROLL
ROMAN: Can’t. Sorry. She's already excited. She saw the wedding video. She thinks you're "molto romantico."
ME: I'm putting the phone down now
ROMAN: Bring Harper. Thursday. Six PM. Don't be late
ROMAN: And bring the girl who made you commit felony assault
He stops responding before I can argue, and I set my phone down and stare at the ocean through the window.
Thanksgiving.
With Roman and Christian and a group of Italian grandmothers who will absolutely ask invasive questions about my personal life.
Normally, at a time like this, I’d rather set myself on fire.
But the idea of Harper there—meeting my friends, charming Nonna the way she charmed Babushka—
"Morning."
I turn around, heart thundering when I notice that Harper is standing in the galley doorway wearing my dress shirt from last night.
Just my shirt.
It hits her mid-thigh, the sleeves rolled up, the collar open enough to show the hollow of her throat. Her golden-brown hair is messy from sleep, her face makeup-free as she squints slightly in the morning light.
And she looks so damn beautiful it nearly hurts to look at her.
I turn my attention back to the coffee maker, clearing my throat.
"That's my shirt," I hear myself say.
"I know. I borrowed it." She walks to the coffee maker, completely unbothered by the fact that she's half-naked in my presence. "My dress from last night is basically a crime scene. Wrinkled beyond recognition. This was hanging on the back of your door."
"You went into my cabin?"
"The door was open. I figured you were already up." She pours herself coffee, adding cream and sugar. "Was I wrong?"
"No. I've been up since six."
"Couldn't sleep?"
"Not particularly."
She takes a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim of her mug. "Me neither."
We stare at each other.
The galley suddenly feels way too damn small, too intimate. Doesn’t help that Harper is looking absolutely delectable while wearing my shirt with nothing underneath, and I'm trying very hard to be the gentleman I said I’d be last night.
"You should put on pants," I say.
"I should do a lot of things."
“Jesus, woman, you’re trying to kill me.”
She laughs, a raspy, sleep-heavy sound. “Relax, Kade. I'm not trying to seduce you. I just needed coffee and my suitcase is still in my cabin and I was lazy." She leans against the counter. "Though if you're uncomfortable, I can go change."
"I'm not uncomfortable."
"You look uncomfortable."
"I'm exercising restraint."
"Ah." She smiles into her coffee. "The Ice Prince returns."
“No. Simply trying to respect the boundaries you set last night."
"I appreciate that. Truly." She sets down her mug. "But for the record, I'm not made of glass. You can look at me without spontaneously combusting."
“I can?”
“I’d think so. You’ve been doing a pretty good job staring at the wall behind me for the past thirty seconds."
She's right. I have.
I force myself to look at her—examine her, examine the way my shirt hangs on her frame. Her smooth bare legs. The amused look on her face that lets me know she's enjoying watching me squirm.
"Happy?" I ask.
"Very."
"You're cruel."
"I'm caffeinated.”
I snort at her answer, and she smiles back.
"So," she says, hopping up to sit on the counter. "What's the plan? Fly back to Vegas? Pretend last night didn't happen? Issue a formal apology to Richard Francis?"
"Absolutely not."
"To which part?"
"The apology. I'm not apologizing for hitting Alexei."
"Good. He deserved it."
"He did."
"And the CulinaryVision deal?"
I lean against the opposite counter, crossing my arms. "Dead. Patricia Franklin will use last night as proof I'm unstable. The board will vote to delay or cancel the acquisition. Rachel will have a mental breakdown."
"And you're okay with that?"
“Trying to be.”