Chapter 9
SOFIA
Llueve sobre mojado – Pablo Alborán, Aitana, álvaro de Luna
The first whale tour after the clean-up had sold out, and she’d led it herself while Jo?o, the boat driver, navigated.
Even though she’d spent a whole summer earning her boat license, surrounded by men who insisted, “On my boat, I just want beers and hoes”, she couldn’t manage both driving and leading the group.
So, she’d hired Jo?o, a sixty-something retired Portuguese sailor who had graciously accepted the initial low pay simply because he loved being at sea.
Her goal was to pay him properly, and even more than any other sailors earned in Portugal, but she needed the tours to be filled with happy clients who left amazing reviews.
That afternoon, the clients had seemed happy by the end of the tour.
A group of ten was all she could fit, but she was certain that even when money started coming in, she wouldn’t expand it.
She liked the intimacy. The questions from both kids and adults.
The chance to teach them how to dive responsibly without disturbing marine life.
And mostly, to take all she had learned in years of studying in labs, and try to translate so that non-marine biologist people could understand her and learn from it.
When she’d seen the whale breach, her heart had scattered inside her chest. It was breathtaking.
No matter how many times she’d seen it. The first whale of the season had greeted them at the perfect moment, and selfishly, she knew the reviews would be glowing if the bright smiles on their faces were anything to go by.
Once on land, Jo?o had dropped her off with his truck at the top of the hill, and now she strolled leisurely through Ericeira’s narrow streets, lined with whitewashed houses and bright blue accents.
The calcada portuguesa crunched softly under her sneakers as she recorded an audio message to Elvira, promising to send the tour report later that night.
Then she stopped.
Two figures were waiting in front of her building.
Her brows furrowed as her gaze locked on Jamie, with her sharp blue eyes, claw-clipped blonde hair, and crisp blouse-and-skirt combo, and the man beside her: broad shoulders, olive-green jumper, grey sweatpants, sneakers, backwards hat over messy black curls, and that smug grin she had hoped to never see again after the end of the surf event. Ilias.
Che cazzo vogliono? And how did they know where she lived?
“Should I file a restraining order?” Sofia greeted them, eyes narrowing mainly at Ilias, who only grinned wider. Unfortunately, it was a very good smile. His white teeth gleamed against tawny skin and light dark stubble.
“Hear us out first before jumping to conclusions, habiba.”
She turned to Jamie. Ignoring him completely. “Why are you here?”
“Hello to you too, Sofia. Can I call you Sofia and not Doctor Moretti Gómez? It’s such a mouthful.”
No.
“Yes,” she said tightly.
Defensiveness was her default setting when faced with unexpected visits and unclear intentions. Which prompted her bitchy attitude even to Jamie whom she should treat better since she was the only reason TerraVive could decide to sponsor Salacia. Panic filled her mind.
Was Jamie here to tell her she wasn’t getting sponsored? And Ilias was just tagging along to annoy her into madness? But that didn’t make sense, she could have just ignored her like she had done the entire weekend.
“We need to talk business,” Jamie said.
Alright.
“Positively or negatively?” Sofia asked, adjusting the heavy tote bag digging into her shoulder.
Surprisingly, Ilias stepped forward and took it from her without asking.
“Depends on you. But let me carry this.”
She was tempted to snap it back but Ilias had already slung it over his shoulder, and her own was silently screaming with relief.
“Let’s go to my apartment.” She sighed.
This ambush wasn’t on her bingo card, but if it meant something good for Salacia, she’d put up with Jamie and the smug surfer beside her.
For someone who’d just been suspended for two USL events, he looked very cheerful.
He was skipping Bali and El Salvador, if she remembered correctly.
Not that she cared. Alejandra had told her. That was it.
“I hate these stairs,” Jamie groaned as they climbed up the narrow staircase of her Portuguese building. They were a pain in the ass, especially after grocery shopping, but they kept her legs strong.
“I’m not complaining,” Ilias said from behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder and caught the bastard quite literally staring at her ass. At his eye-level.
Ilias just grinned, not even trying to hide that he had been caught. She sped up the last few steps, cheeks heating, and fumbled the door open.
She let them in. Inviting the devil into her sanctuary.
The windows were cracked to let the ocean breeze inside. The salty air was humid and ever-present, and without proper airflow, it would ruin everything. Her papers, her paintings, even the walls.
“Do you want something to drink?” she offered, trying to be polite.
Ilias set her bag carefully on the table.
“No, let’s just get this over with,” Jamie said with a sigh.
Whatever she was about to say, she clearly didn’t enjoy it. Sofia’s curiosity spiked. They sat. Jamie and Ilias on the couch, Sofia in the armchair.
“So? What’s so important that it couldn't be sent in an email?” she asked, mostly directing it at Jamie.
“I don’t know how much you’ve heard about Ilias’ situation,” Jamie began.
“Some of it.”
Mentirosa.
“After punching Steven,” Ilias started, “I lost the event, the points, and I got suspended for two events.”
Sofia nodded. And for just a moment, when his face darkened, she actually felt a bit sorry for him. If he’d really punched the guy because of what he said about her... well, she was too proud to thank him, but part of her respected him.
“TerraVive’s board didn’t like it,” Jamie continued. “They considered dropping him, which would’ve been horrible for his image, for his future, and for his career.”
“We’ve got a proposal for you. A deal.” Ilias sighed.
“I know that te caigo como el culo, and I don’t even know why.
” The brief change to Spanish nearly made her chuckle, because it was so fucking accurate that he annoyed the shit out of her, and just that specific expression in Spanish could describe it.
Truth be told, the only reason she couldn’t stand him was that he was too charming for his own good.
Better push him away and continue her man hating era.
“But I think this might benefit both of us.”
“How?”
What could possibly benefit them both? Even though their element was the ocean, their worlds were completely different. He was an athlete and she was a scientist. Totally different worlds.
“He needs his reputation restored. You need funds for Salacia. Am I wrong?” Jamie said, tone sharp.
“I need a sponsor who believes in me,” Sofia snapped.
“Perfect,” Jamie replied, unfazed. “So, here’s the offer.”
She handed Sofia a folded sheet of paper.
“We give you this amount as a start, plus bonuses in the contract. We sponsor you and Salacia. In exchange, all you have to do is fake a PR relationship with Ilias.”
Sofia blinked. “Fake PR relationship?”
“Yeah. Celebs do it all the time. We’re not that famous, but with our social media reach in the ocean and surf communities, we could do a lot of good for our causes and our careers,” Ilias explained.
“That sounds… weird,” Sofia muttered, still staring at the paper.
“Open it,” Jamie urged.
She unfolded it. Her heart stuttered. €200,000.
She had never seen that many zeroes after a 2 in her life.
“You could rent a new boat. Open offices. Hire people. Whatever you need,” Ilias said, voice softer now. “I know it’s not ideal. But it’s money for your project. And a reset for my name.”
“But why me?” she asked, suddenly feeling too small for this conversation. “What do I have that could fix your reputation?”
“You’re a great marine biologist. But more than that, you’re a good person with an amazing social reach and it could help restore Ilias’ image with TerraVive and other sponsors,” Jamie said. “Anyway, TerraVive was already considering sponsoring you.”
Sofia had to fight the scowl tugging at her face. This goddamn woman had spent the entire weekend suggesting the opposite.
“What does TerraVive earn from it?” Sofia asked, trying to keep her tone neutral.
“A PR couple that would wear their clothes, represent them at events, participate in conferences, have a good social media presence and will attract the right gossip,” Jamie explained.
“You’ve got a clean image. People respect you.
You’ve collaborated with divers, photographers, researchers.
You’re solid. And we need someone solid beside Ilias to prove he’s grounded. ”
“What can I say? I’m a little rebel,” Ilias added, grinning.
Sofia rolled her eyes.
“Downside is, you’d have to deal with him,” Jamie said.
“Hey. Have you seen me?” Ilias protested. “I’m gorgeous. Smart. Fantastic—”
“And with a temper,” Jamie cut in.
“When people insult someone I care about,” he shot back.
Sofia stared at him. Why did his voice sound so sincere? Why did his hazel eyes seem so fucking honest?
“Can I think about it?” she asked.
Both of them nodded.
“I’ll email you the contract with all the details and you can take your time to read it,” Jamie said.
Ilias stood. “We’ll leave you be. Hopefully, we’ll work together.”
“If it’s not me… Do you have any other options?” she asked, guiding them toward the door. Jamie was already halfway out, heading for the stairs.
“No,” Ilias said immediately.
Before she could step away, he was there. Pinning her against the corridor wall, caging her between his strong arms.
Too close.
Too hot.
Every inch of him radiated heat, tall and solid.
Every muscle taut even under the sweater.
Because she still remembered him in the Athlete Zone when he had lowered his wetsuit and showed muscles that only people who trained daily could have.
He leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear, voice low and rough. “You’re my only choice, habiba.”
Her breath hitched. A spark ignited, shooting straight down her spine.
Salt, sun. His scent wrapped around her, stirring a tension deep in her stomach she refused to name.
She swallowed hard, blinked rapidly, and somehow managed to not melt completely.
“Buenas noches, Sofia.”
“Bye,” she said, voice breathy, betraying every ounce of her cool as she waved them off.
Only after the door clicked shut did she exhale, sharp and shaky.
What the hell was wrong with her? Her body was betraying her, responding to the raw pull of a very good-looking man.
But he wasn’t her type. Too confident. Too cocky. Too athletic. Too everything. She was used to the Hamptons, polished men, controlled, predictable. Not rough ones like Ilias, who flirted like it was his mission to see her crumble.
And this fake relationship? With a man who was slowly dismantling her carefully constructed “I hate men” era?
Absolutely, catastrophically, a terrible idea.