Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
HARPER
MORNING AFTER CALCULATIONS
I wake to sunlight streaming through the balcony curtains and the distant sound of waves against the hull. For a moment, I lie still, noticing all the sensations—soft sheets, the gentle rock of the ship, and a pleasant soreness in my muscles that brings memories of last night flooding back.
Ethan’s hands on my skin. My name on his lips. Sand beneath my back and stars overhead.
“Oh god,” I groan, pulling a pillow over my face.
I, Harper Bennett, PhD, respected marine biologist and vocal critic of corporate environmental exploitation, had sex on a beach with Ethan Cole. Fantastic, mind-blowing sex that I initiated just as much as he did.
It was supposed to be a professional arrangement. A fake relationship to repair both our public images while I gathered information for my report. Nothing more.
Yet here I am, remembering how he kissed me, how he touched me, how he looked at me like I was the most fascinating woman he’d ever been with.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. I peek out from under the pillow to see Zoe’s name on the screen.
Did you murder the billionaire yet or are you too busy hate-making out with him?
If she only knew.
I ignore the text, not ready to explain to my best friend that I’ve crossed a line I swore I’d never cross—mixing professional with personal. We all know that is a dangerous cocktail.
A soft knock at the balcony door makes me sit bolt upright. Through the sheer curtains, I can make out Ethan’s silhouette on his adjacent balcony, holding a coffee cup.
I consider pretending to be asleep, but I’ve never been one to hide from my mistakes. Even extraordinarily handsome, orgasm-inducing mistakes. No shame.
I pull on a robe, rake a hand through my hopelessly knotty hair, and slide open the glass door.
“Good morning,” Ethan says, his voice infuriatingly casual. He looks unfairly good—freshly showered, dressed in a simple t-shirt and shorts, his hair still slightly damp.
“Is it?” I reply, accepting the coffee he offers. “I’m still deciding.”
His lips twitch with amusement. “How scientific of you to reserve judgment pending further investigation.” He’s mocking me.
“Don’t make jokes. I’m having a personal crisis.”
“About last night?”
I take a fortifying sip of coffee—prepared how I like it, which is disconcerting—and meet his eyes. “Yes, about last night. That was...”
“Amazing? Surprising? Long overdue?” he replies.
“Unprofessional. Complicated, and really poor impulse control.”
His smile dims. “Ah.”
“This was supposed to be straightforward, Ethan. I pretend to date you, I get my report written, we both get what we want.”
“And last night didn’t fit into that equation? Did you not get what you wanted?”
“Of course it didn’t!” I set the coffee cup down. “We’re on opposite sides of an environmental debate. I’ve criticized your company for years.”
“And I’ve given you access to data proving we’re making massive improvements.” He leans against the railing. “Some might say that’s progress.”
“Some might call sleeping with the subject of my investigation a massive conflict of interest.”
His expression turns serious. “Is that what I am to you? Just the subject of an investigation?”
The question catches me off guard. What is Ethan to me now? Antagonist, research subject, fake boyfriend, lover... the categories are blurring dangerously.
“It’s too complicated,” I say.
“It doesn’t have to be.” He moves closer, not touching me but close enough that I can smell his soap. “We’re two consenting adults who are attracted to each other. We acted on that attraction. Simple.”
“There’s nothing simple about this situation.”
“Only because you’re overthinking it.” His eyes search mine. “Last night, when I asked if you had regrets, you said ‘ask me tomorrow.’ Well, it’s tomorrow. Do you regret what happened?”
The honest answer is more complex than I want to admit. “I regret the complications, not the experience.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “So, the experience itself was...?”
“Don’t push your luck, Cole.”
He laughs, and I feel myself smiling too.
“Fine, I’ll take that non-answer as a positive review.” He picks up his own coffee cup. “What’s on your agenda today?”
The abrupt change of subject throws me. “Um, I was planning to review the turtle data and start drafting that part of my report.”
“Meet me for lunch first? The ship docks at Saint Lucia at noon. There’s a seafood restaurant in port that I think you’d appreciate.”
“Are the cameras coming too?” I ask, only half-joking.
“No cameras. Just lunch.”
I should say no. I should maintain professional distance and remember that one night of admittedly incredible sex doesn’t change our fundamental positions.
“Okay,” I hear myself say instead. “Lunch.”
His smile is like sunlight breaking through clouds. “I’ll meet you at the gangway at 12:30.”
Before I can react, he leans forward and places a quick kiss on my lips, then retreats to his own balcony. “Enjoy your data analysis, Dr. Bennett.”
I stand there, coffee in hand, lips tingling, wondering how I’ve lost control of this situation so completely.
After a shower, I settle on the balcony with my laptop and the turtle research. It’s genuinely impressive—comprehensive, well documented, with clear evidence of population recovery. The conservation protocols align with best practices, and the funding Ethan has provided has enabled technological monitoring that most research stations could only dream of.
It complicates my narrative. I can’t paint Cole Tech as environmental villains when they’re funding such amazing conservation work. And I can’t dismiss Ethan as a corporate greenwasher when he seems committed to this project.
My phone rings, displaying my publisher’s number. I answer with trepidation.
“Eleanor, hi.”
“Harper! Just checking in on your exposé. Social media is buzzing about you and Ethan Cole. Tell me you’re getting good dirt.”
I wince. “It’s... more nuanced than I expected. They’re doing some legitimate conservation work.”
“But the cruise ship itself? The consumption, the waste?”
“Still room for improvement,” I concede, thinking of the excessive food waste I’ve documented and the single-use plastics still in use. “But they’re implementing changes, and some of their initiatives are innovative.”
A pause from Eleanor’s end. “Harper, we sold this as an exposé, not a puff piece. The publisher wants ‘Playground of the Privileged: The Environmental Cost of Luxury Cruising,’ not ‘Rich People Trying Their Best.’”
“I understand, but I have to report what I find, not what fits a predetermined narrative.”
“Of course,” Eleanor says, though her tone suggests disappointment. “But remember, readers want drama. If everything’s sunshine and sea turtles, there’s no story.”
After we hang up, I stare at my data spreadsheets, feeling caught between my integrity and my publishers expectations. Eleanor wants environmental villains. The cruise wants good publicity. Ethan wants...
What does Ethan want? Beyond the obvious beach sex, what is his endgame here?
My phone buzzes with a notification from the ship’s app—a reminder about today’s couples’ activity: “Sensual Massage Workshop, 3 PM, Lotus Spa.”
I close the app with a groan. Of course there’s a massage workshop. Because being half naked and touching each other is exactly what Ethan and I need after last night.
At 12:25, I make my way to the gangway, having changed into a casual yellow sundress and sandals. The ship has docked in Castries, St. Lucia’s capital, the lush green island rising from the turquoise water.
Ethan is already waiting, somehow looking like a luxury travel advertisement in simple linen pants and a blue button-down that makes his eyes even more impossibly blue. He smiles when he sees me, and my stomach does an embarrassing flip.
“Right on time,” he says, offering his arm. “The restaurant’s about a ten-minute walk along the coastal road.”
I take his arm, conscious of other passengers watching us. “Are we still playing ‘couple’ for the audience?”
“We’re whatever you want us to be,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “On camera, off camera—your call.”
The sincerity in his tone catches me off guard. I expected gloating after last night, or at least smug satisfaction. This consideration of my feelings is... disarming.
We disembark, stepping into the tropical heat of St. Lucia. The port area bustles with activity—locals selling handicrafts, tourists taking photos, taxi drivers calling out destinations. Ethan pushes through the crowd with ease, placing a protective hand on my lower back to guide me.
“How many times have you been here?” I ask as we turn down a less crowded side street.
“Seven or eight. My grandfather used to bring the ships here for maintenance. There’s a good natural deep-water harbor.”
“You spent a lot of time on these islands growing up?”
He nods, pointing out a colorful building. “My childhood was split between boardrooms and boat decks. My father wanted me in business meetings; my grandfather wanted me to understand the ships from the engine room up.”
“And which did you prefer?”
“The ships, without question.” He smiles at the memory. “Nothing better than standing on the bow as you approach an island like this one. My grandfather would tell me the geological history of each formation we could see.”
“He sounds like he had a naturalist’s perspective.”
“He loved the ocean in his way, even if that love was complicated by the fact that he built vessels that polluted it.” Ethan points to a small, blue-painted restaurant ahead. “Here we are—Mer Durable. It’s run by a local chef who only serves sustainable, locally caught seafood.”
The restaurant is charming—open air with views of the water, colorful local art on the walls, ceiling fans spinning lazily overhead. The host greets Ethan by name and leads us to a table on a covered patio overlooking the water.
“The owner started as a fisherman,” Ethan explains once we’re seated. “He became concerned about declining fish populations and helped establish sustainable fishing practices in the local community.”
“Is there anything you don’t know about every port we visit?”
He grins. “I do my research.”
“On marine conservation efforts?”
“On things that might impress you.”
The candid admission catches me off guard. “You’ve been trying to impress me?”
“Since you threw champagne in my face, yes.” He unfolds his napkin casually. “Though I admit, I didn’t expect it to be quite so hard.”
A server arrives with water and menus, giving me a moment to process what he said. Ethan has been working to impress me. Not just manipulate public opinion, not just secure positive press, but impress me personally.
“Why?” I ask after the server leaves. “Why bother? You could have just had me removed from the ship after the champagne incident.”
He looks up from his menu. “Because you were right.”
“About what?”
“About Cole Tech not doing enough. About our seabed mining technology needing more environmental safeguards. About our responsibility to do better.” He sets his menu down. “You’re brilliant, Harper, and your criticism is valid. I wanted to show you we’re trying to improve, not just dismiss you.”
I study him, trying to reconcile this thoughtful man with the corporate figurehead I’ve spent years ripping apart. “That’s... not what I expected you to say.”
“What did you expect?”
“Something about PR, or damage control, or?—”
“Oh, that too,” he interrupts with a grin. “But I can have multiple motivations. Improving our environmental practices and getting to know the gorgeous scientist who’s been publicly challenging me for years aren’t mutually exclusive goals.”
The server returns for our orders, and we both select the day’s special—locally caught Mahi-Mahi with island vegetables. When we’re alone again, I want to continue our honest talk.
“Last night,” I begin, “when you asked if I regretted it, and I said to ask me tomorrow...”
“Which is today,” he supplies.
“Right. I’ve been thinking about my answer.”
His expression remains neutral. “And?”
“I don’t regret it.” The admission feels both terrifying and liberating. “But I’m still not sure what it means. For us, professionally or... otherwise.”
“It doesn’t have to mean anything you don’t want it to mean.” He reaches across the table, his fingers lightly touching mine. “We’ve got three more days on this cruise. We can define this—us—however we want.”
“And when the cruise ends?”
A shadow crosses his face. “That depends on what conclusions you reach in your article, I suppose.”
The reminder of my professional purpose here feels like a splash of cold water. No matter how perfect last night was, no matter how genuine our connection feels in this moment, we still have opposing interests.
“My article will reflect what I find,” I say carefully. “The good and the bad. The facts.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” His fingers still touch mine, neither advancing nor retreating. “I’m not asking you to compromise your integrity, Harper. I just want a fair chance.”
“Why does my opinion matter so much to you?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Because you can’t be bought.” His answer comes without hesitation. “Your approval can’t be purchased with donations or manipulated with PR stunts. If Harper Bennett says Cole Tech is making real environmental progress, people will believe it because they know you wouldn’t say it unless it was true.”
The food arrives, pausing our conversation. The dish is beautifully presented, the fish perfectly cooked, the flavors rich and fresh. We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the tension between us settling.
“This is delicious,” I say after a few bites.
“I thought you’d like it.” He looks pleased by my approval. “The chef trained in Paris but uses traditional island cooking techniques.”
“Your research on things that might impress me is very thorough.”
He laughs. “I’m a Cole. Thoroughness is in our DNA.”
“Is that so?” I raise an eyebrow, thinking of last night. “I had noticed that talent.”
His eyes darken at my implication. “Dr. Bennett, are you flirting with me?”
“Merely making an observation.”
“In that case, I hope your research continues. I believe there are several aspects of my... thoroughness... that warrant looking deeper.”
Heat rises to my cheeks despite my best efforts at composure. “You’re impossible.”
“So, you keep saying.” His smile is infectious. “And yet, here you are, having lunch with me.”
“The restaurant is impressive.”
“Just the restaurant?”
I roll my eyes, but can’t help smiling. “Your ego doesn’t need the feeding. We’ve already established that.”
After lunch, we walk along the harbor, our hands occasionally touching. It feels both strange and natural to be with Ethan like this—no cameras, no audience, just two people enjoying each other’s company.
He points out historical sites and shares stories about the island, and I find myself engaged. It’s like being with a different person than the corporate villain I’d made up in my mind.
“We should head back,” he says, checking his watch. “Unless you want to skip the massage workshop?”
I’d almost forgotten about the scheduled couples’ activity. “God, that’s going to be awkward.”
“More awkward than what we’ve already done?” His expression is teasing.
“Different context.” I bite my lip. “Last night was private. This will be in front of others.”
“We can skip it. Say we lost track of time exploring the island.”
I consider this escape option, then shake my head. “No, we should go. It’s part of the itinerary, and besides, the massage might be relaxing.”
We make our way back to the ship, arriving with just enough time to change before the workshop. In my cabin, I swap my sundress for yoga pants and a tank top, as suggested by the activity description. My phone buzzes with a text from Ethan:
Ready for me to get my hands on you again?
I type back:
Professional context only, Cole. Don’t get ideas.
His response is immediate:
Too late for that warning, Bennett.
The massage workshop is held in the ship’s largest spa room, with eight couples’ massage tables arranged in a circle. An instructor stands in the center—a serene-looking woman in flowing clothes who introduces herself as Celeste.
“Welcome to our Sensual Massage Workshop,” she says once all couples have arrived. “Today you’ll learn techniques to enhance intimacy and relaxation with your partner.”
Ethan and I exchange glances. He looks amused; I try for professional detachment.
“Each couple should decide who will receive the massage first,” Celeste continues. “The receiver, please lie face down on the table. Givers, stand beside your partner.”
“Your choice,” Ethan says quietly. “Give or receive?”
The double entendre is obvious, but I refuse to acknowledge it. “I’ll receive first.”
I settle on the table, face down, trying to maintain my composure as Ethan stands beside me. The other couples around us are all at various stages of coupledom—some dating, others longtime partners or spouses.
“Givers, start by warming the massage oil in your hands,” Celeste instructs, her assistants handing out small bottles of oil. “We’ll begin with the back and shoulders, where we hold most of our tension.”
I hear Ethan rubbing his hands together, and then his warm palms make contact with my shoulders through the thin fabric of my tank top. Despite my resolve to remain clinical about this experience, I can’t help the small sigh that escapes me as his strong fingers work the knots in my upper back.
“Feel free to remove your clothing for better contact,” Celeste suggests. “Always respecting your partner’s comfort, of course.”
“May I?” Ethan asks, his hands pausing on my shoulders.
I hesitate, then nod. “Just the tank top.”
His fingers lift the hem of my top, sliding it up to expose my back while leaving my front covered against the table. The oil is warm as he spreads it across my skin, his touch sensual.
“Begin with long, sweeping strokes from the lower back to the shoulders,” Celeste instructs. “Connect with your partner’s body, feel the areas of tension.”
Ethan’s hands move as directed, applying perfect pressure as they travel up my spine. I close my eyes, surrendering to the relaxation.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, thumbs working a tight knot between my shoulder blades.
“Occupational hazard of hunching over research papers, and dealing with annoying billionaires.” I manage, trying to ignore how good his hands feel on my skin.
“Hmm, and here I thought it might be the stress of pretending to date someone you claim to hate.”
I’m about to retort when his thumb hits a sensitive spot, drawing a soft groan from me instead. I can sense his smug smile without seeing it.
“Now, partners, pay special attention to the neck and base of the skull,” Celeste continues. “This area holds our emotional tension as well as physical.”
Ethan’s fingers work their way up my neck, applying gentle pressure at the base of my skull. It feels divine—intimate yet therapeutic. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s very good at this.
“Where did you learn to massage like this?” I ask quietly.
“A retreat in Thailand. Three weeks of daily practice.”
“Of course,” I murmur. “Billionaire things.”
He chuckles, his breath warm near my ear. “If it makes you feel better, I was terrible at first. My instructor said I approached human bodies like engineering problems.”
“Don’t you?”
His thumbs trace small circles at the tender junction where my neck meets my shoulders. “Not yours.”
The simple statement, delivered in that low, intimate voice, sends a shiver down my spine.
The instruction continues, moving to arms and hands, then legs and feet. By the time Celeste announces it’s time to switch positions, I feel like I’ve melted into the table.
I sit up, careful to keep my tank top in place. Ethan looks very pleased with himself.
“Your turn,” I say, trying to sound more composed than I feel.
We switch positions, Ethan lying face down on the table. As he settles, he pulls his shirt off, revealing the tanned muscles of his back. I’ve seen it before—felt it beneath my hands just last night—but in the clinical light of the spa room, I can appreciate the defined muscles and smooth skin.
“Begin as before,” Celeste instructs. “Warm the oil between your palms and start with long strokes to warm the muscles.”
I’m nervous, my usual confidence wavering. This is Ethan Cole, and despite what happened last night, despite our lunch today, touching him like this feels like I’m crossing another line.
“Whenever you’re ready, Dr. Bennett,” Ethan says, his voice muffled by the face rest but unmistakably amused. “Unless you need a demonstration first.”
The challenge in his voice snaps me back to reality. I warm the oil between my palms and place my hands on his shoulders with more confidence than I have.
“I think I can manage,” I reply, beginning the long strokes down his back as instructed.
His skin is warm beneath my hands, muscles relaxing under my touch. As I continue the massage, following Celeste’s instructions, I get more comfortable, more focused on the task rather than who I’m touching.
“You’re good at this,” Ethan murmurs as I work on a knot in his shoulder.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I assumed scientists would be more analytical than intuitive with this stuff.”
I dig my thumb into a tight spot, drawing a satisfying groan from him. “The human body is just another system to understand, Cole. Action and reaction. Pressure and release. Cause and effect.”
“Is that how you approach everything?” His voice has dropped lower. “Analytically?”
I think of last night—the decidedly non-analytical way I responded to his touch, the abandonment of thought for pure sensation.
“Not everything,” I admit.
He turns his head slightly, catching my eye from the massage table. “Good to know.”
For the rest of the massage, there is a charged silence, my hands working over his back, arms, and legs as instructed. By the time Celeste announces the end of the workshop, the air between us feels thick with tension.
As we leave the spa, Ethan leans close. “So, Dr. Bennett, was that part of your professional assessment, or purely recreational?”
“Both,” I answer. “The spa uses excessive water and imported products, but the experience itself was... educational.”
“Educational,” he repeats, looking amused. “Is that your scientific term for fun?”
“Don’t push it, Cole.”
We reach the elevator bank, and an awkward silence falls as we both realize we’re heading to the same place—our adjacent cabins.
“Any plans for the evening?” he asks as the elevator ascends.
“Data and my report,” I reply. “I need to incorporate the turtle research into my draft.”
“Sounds riveting.” He rolls his eyes.
“It is to me.” I love my job.
The elevator stops at our floor, and we walk down the hallway together. At my door, I pause, uncertain about the right way to end whatever this non-date was.
Ethan solves the dilemma by leaning in and placing a soft kiss on my cheek. “Enjoy your data, Harper.”
“Ethan,” I say before he can turn away, surprising myself. “Thank you for lunch. And... for respecting my boundaries.”
“Always.”
He starts toward his own door, then stops. “If you finish your data analysis early, I’ll be on my balcony with a bottle of wine that I think you’d appreciate. Ethically farmed grapes, of course.”
“I’ll consider it,” I reply, not quite committing.
His smile suggests he knows I’ll show up. The most irritating part is that he’s right.
Inside my cabin, I sit at the desk and force myself to focus on my work. The turtle data is impressive, and I work it into my draft. But as evening falls, my concentration starts to wear thin. I keep glancing at the balcony door, aware that just beyond it, separated by a glass partition, Ethan is waiting.
I should finish my work, and remember that in three days, this cruise ends, and I return to my real life—where Ethan Cole is a subject of my professional criticism, not my personal affection. We live in two different worlds off this boat.
I save my document, change into a sundress, and open my balcony door. Ethan is there, as promised, two glasses and a bottle of wine on the small table between the chairs. He looks up when he hears the door, and his smile makes my stomach flutter with butterflies.
“Data all analyzed?” he mocks as I take the seat beside him.
“Enough for tonight.” I accept the glass of wine he offers. “Tell me about this sustainably produced wine you were raving about.”
As he launches into an explanation of the vineyard’s organic farming and renewable energy use, I am smiling. This man is nothing like I expected when I boarded this ship. He’s complex, thoughtful, and committed to environmental improvement—even if his methods and timeline don’t always align.
More dangerously, he makes me laugh. He challenges me intellectually. And the way he looks at me makes me feel both seen and desired in a way I haven’t experienced before.
Three more days, I remind myself as we sip wine and watch the stars emerge over the Caribbean. Three days to figure out what this is, and what happens when we return to reality.
But tonight, with the gentle rock of the ship beneath us and Ethan’s voice painting pictures of vineyards and wine making, I allow myself to enjoy the moment.