11. Kate #2
“He should have stopped you from using it.”
“You’ll remember it.”
“That doesn’t mean I liked it.”
“You didn’t insult it quickly enough.”
“I’m insulting it now.”
“Too late.”
I slid my finger beneath the envelope flap. The invitation inside was printed on heavy card stock with the Waters family crest embossed at the top.
“A yacht party?”
“Tomorrow night aboard the Sovereign. We leave Bayview Marina at six and anchor offshore.”
“Your softer approach is inviting me to a party on your yacht?”
“It’s business and pleasure. I have to attend because it’s my boat and my party.”
“You poor thing.”
“I need a plus-one.”
“Hire one.”
“I don’t want one I can hire.”
The answer was immediate and free of innuendo.
I looked back at the invitation. “Why me?”
“Because I want you beside me.”
“You barely know me.”
“That’s the problem I’m trying to correct.”
I returned the invitation to its envelope. “I’m not going.”
“You hesitated.”
“I was deciding how many people I’d have to avoid.”
“You’d be with me.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It does for me.”
I took another sip of the cappuccino. “What about Krystal?”
His brow lifted.
“Is she ‘handled.’ She won’t pop out and try to throw me overboard?”
“Brett had her admitted to the medical clinic on the Reservation.”
“Ooh, I’m sure she loved that.”
“I don’t give a fuck. She was high…I suspected she was into other things… I’ve been too distracted to really notice.
The blunt answer sent an unwelcome flicker of satisfaction through me.
Michael saw it but, to his credit, didn’t smile.
“I’m asking you. There’s no one else.”
“I already said no.”
“You answered before you knew what you were refusing.”
“I’m refusing you. We had a deal. I honored it.”
His eyes warmed. “No, you’re trying to.”
The confidence in his voice made me want to shut the door.
It also made me want to kiss him.
“You’re supposed to be trying a softer approach,” I reminded him.
“I brought chocolate, coffee, and a dog biscuit.”
“That doesn’t make you romantic.”
“I’m standing outside your house instead of inside it.”
“Progress.”
“I thought so.”
His phone vibrated inside his coat. He removed it, glanced at the screen, and silenced the call.
“Casino emergency?” I asked.
“Probably.”
“And you’re ignoring it?”
“I’m busy.”
“With what?”
His gaze settled on me. “You.”
He checked his watch.
“Why do you keep looking at the time?”
“Because you said you weren’t going to call or text me tonight.”
“I didn’t.”
“No. You lied about margaritas and turned off your phone.”
My fingers tightened around the cup.
He knew.
I didn’t know how, but he knew.
“What makes you think I lied?”
“It’s eleven fifty-nine. I’d rather not waste the final minute arguing about imaginary cocktails.”
I took a step toward the door.
“Kate.”
His tone stopped me.
“I’m not here to expose you,” he said. “You didn’t want to see me, and you didn’t trust me to accept that without pushing. I understand the message.”
“Do you?”
“I’m trying.”
That was the first thing he had said all night that held no arrogance.
“You said you weren’t going to call or text me tonight,” he continued. “But you never said I couldn’t come ask for a kiss at midnight.”
I kept one hand on the door.
“You crossed town because you needed a kiss?”
“No.” His gaze dropped to my mouth. “I crossed town because I needed yours.”
There was no smirk afterward. He didn’t move closer or reach for me.
The clock inside the house changed to midnight.
Michael looked past me toward the display and then returned his attention to my face.
“May I?”
I should have said no.
I had created an entire fictional night out to avoid this man. I had walked home alone in the cold because I needed to prove that one night hadn’t given him control over the next.
Yet he was standing below me on the porch, asking rather than taking, and that small change had dismantled half my resistance.
“One kiss,” I said. “It does not mean I’m going to your party.”
“Understood.”
“It doesn’t mean we’re dating.”
“Of course not.”
“And it doesn’t give you permission to show up here whenever you want.”
“I’ll limit myself to significant occasions.”
“Midnight isn’t a significant occasion.”
“It is when you kiss me.”
I descended one step and caught the front of his coat.
Michael stayed still while I leaned toward him. His face was cool from the wind, his mouth warm when it met mine.
I intended the kiss to be brief.
He let me control it, keeping his hands at his sides even when I lingered. His restraint was more persuasive than pressure would have been. When his mouth moved against mine, slowly and carefully, I remembered every reason one night had never been enough.
I released his coat and stepped back.
Michael’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t reach for me.
“Happy midnight,” I said.
His eyes remained on my mouth. “Tomorrow. Six o’clock.”
“I still haven’t agreed.”
“No.” He glanced at the envelope in my hand. “But now you have something to consider.”
He turned and walked toward the black SUV waiting at the curb.
“Michael.”
He stopped and looked back.
I didn’t have anything sensible to say. Asking how he had found me would lead to answers I probably wouldn’t like. Asking about Krystal again would give him too much satisfaction. Telling him the cappuccino and chocolate had worked was out of the question.
“Good night,” I said.
Something warm crossed his face.
“Good night, Kate.”
He got into the SUV and disappeared toward the harbor.
Amber came to stand beside me, licking the last biscuit crumbs from her mouth.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
Her tail thumped against the door.
“Traitor.”
I locked up, carried the cappuccino and chocolates into the kitchen, and read the invitation again.
Beneath the formal details, Michael had written one sentence by hand.
Let me show you I can do more than chase.
I returned the card to its envelope and left it on the counter.
I had not agreed to go.
That was all I needed to decide tonight.
By mid-morning the next day, my house smells like French vanilla body butter and nerves.
I’ve gone through every outfit I own that qualifies as "black" and "elegant.
Too short. Too tight. Too hooker.
And still nothing feels right.
Amber’s on the bed watching me spiral.
“Why am I even doing this?” I ask her, holding up a satin slip dress and some strappy heels.
She doesn’t answer.
But I know why.
Because the second he said “you’re mine now,” something in me flipped. Not in surrender. In defiance. In desire. In danger. Michael doesn’t make requests. He gives orders. And maybe—just maybe—I want to see how far I can push before he stops playing nice.
Or maybe I just want to feel what it’s like to belong to someone powerful for once—and not because he needs me. But because he wants me.
I close my closet and pick up my phone.
Salon. Blowout. Now.
My favorite stylist at Lavande squeezes me in.
I leave twenty minutes later with loose waves that look like I spent the afternoon with an actual sex god instead of a hairdryer.
My skin glows from lotion that costs more than my last nightstand.
I shave until I feel like silk. I do my makeup soft and glam.
And finally—finally—I slip into a black silk dress that skims every inch of me like a whisper and makes me feel like a damn Bond girl.
By the time the doorbell rings at 5:59, I’m not ready—I’m lethal.
I open the door.
He’s in black Armani.
Eyes locked on me like he’s just been given his last meal and it’s standing in front of him in five-inch heels and lip gloss.
We don’t say a word.
But when I walk past him, I feel it—the heat. The possession. The storm that’s coming.
The SUV door swings open and the wind off the harbor hits me like a dare.
The yacht gleams like a pearl against the darkening sky — bright white, multi-decked, dripping with light.
Spotless chrome railings. Glass balconies.
The kind of boat that says: power lives here.
Laughter spills down the docks, the music floating smooth and low.
Everything about it screams luxury… and secrets.
Michael steps out first, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored jacket, then opens my door like a scene straight out of a dream.
Only this dream comes with bodyguards and blood money.
He offers his hand. I take it, letting him help me out—but make no mistake, I walk up that gangplank on my own.
His hand slides to the small of my back, fingers brushing my bare skin just above the zipper of my dress. “You’re gonna start wars in that outfit.”
I look up at him with a smile. “Let’s hope they’re worth winning.”
He grunts something that sounds like a prayer and a threat. Guests watch us as we board—men nodding with half respect, half envy; women giving me the once-over and already making their judgments.
Let them.
Michael leans in, his voice velvet and command all at once. “I’ve got business to handle. High-roller meet and greets. Give me ten.”
I raise a brow, sip my confidence, and say evenly, “I’m a big girl. I’m used to being in control.”
His brow lifts—amused, intrigued — and then his palm lands on my ass in a light but unmistakable swat.
“For now,” he murmurs against my cheek, “but not later.”
He kisses the corner of my mouth, slow and full of promise.
And then he’s gone—suit crisp, stride lethal—swallowed by the upper deck and the power suits trailing behind him.
I descend the sleek curved staircase to the lower lounge where soft jazz curls like smoke in the air. The bar glows under glass and crystal, polished to perfection. Chrome. Mirrors. Velvet.
And sharks.
European escorts in couture. Billionaires pretending to be bored. Women in diamonds worth more than beachfront property. And me—the question mark everyone’s trying to solve.