Chapter Seventeen
Nate had always assumed sneaking required at least a hint of subtlety: a fundamental understanding that the goal was to not get caught.
Ella had apparently missed that memo.
She moved down the marina like she was strolling into a rooftop bar: high-waisted shorts, an oversized linen button-down half-tucked and fluttering in the breeze, pale sneakers flashing against the dark planks.
Her hair was loose, catching what little light there was, and her posture was so upright it practically announced: Hello, world. You’re welcome.
Nate, meanwhile, was dressed like someone about to backpack through Europe: faded T-shirt, worn jeans, boots, and a stupidly overstuffed backpack slung over one shoulder that kept thumping against his spine every time he tried to hurry—which he was.
Jesus, Ella.
He grabbed her elbow before she could step into a pool of golden light spilling from a nearby launch. “Okay,” he whispered. “Rule one of crimes: we do not announce ourselves.”
“This isn’t a crime,” she whispered back, entirely too cheerful. “It’s borrowing.”
“From a man who’s not here.”
“Yes. Who’s also not using it.”
She tugged free of his grip and kept walking. “Anyway, the whole point is to look like we belong.”
Nate rubbed his temples and followed, because what else was he going to do?
“Ella—”
“This one,” she breathed, stopping so abruptly he nearly walked into her.
To their left loomed a speedboat so sleek and white it looked like it had been plucked from a Bond villain’s wet dream. Ella squinted at the name on the hull: Hat Trick.
“Yep. Belongs to some Danish footballer,” she said. “Takes it out once, maybe twice a year to impress his dates. The rest of the time, it marinates in ego.”
Nate crossed his arms. “You did recon?”
Ella gasped. “I prefer verified availability. And Mr. Svend-Something-Or-Other is currently posting workout selfies from Mykonos. Hashtag ‘blessed.’ Hashtag ‘no days off.’ His boat is clearly very off. We’re just exercising it.”
“Yeah, I don’t think ‘we were helping’ is going to impress a judge.”
She huffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Look, if you’re too scared, we can go.”
Scared? Maybe a little. Intrigued was closer. Turned on, closer still. Watching Ella sashay down a dock like a modern-day pirate queen was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. And that? Trouble written all over it.
A creak of wood snapped Nate’s head toward a nearby yacht. A silver-haired man in a crisp blazer appeared at the top of the gangplank, one hand on the rail, backlit by cabin light. He paused, eyes narrowing as he took them in before descending onto the boardwalk.
“Bonsoir,” he said with a slow, assessing nod.
Ella pressed her hand into Nate’s arm, a silent shut up, I’ve got this, before flashing a toothy smile. “Bonsoir. Belle nuit, hein?” She gestured toward the sky, where the first stars were beginning to pierce the twilight.
The man’s expression wavered, his shoulders relaxing a fraction as he followed her gaze upward. For a moment, he stood there. Then, with a shrug, like he’d decided it wasn’t worth the effort, he exhaled, “Magnifique,” before continuing on his way.
Nate stared after him. What the hell are you doing, man? his brain hissed. Common sense was hollering at him to reel her in before someone called the cops.
But then Ella planted her hands on her hips. The moon caught the edge of her cheekbone, the wild spark in her eyes. “Well?” she said, one eyebrow arched. “You in or out?”
He raked a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his head as if he could physically restrain himself.
Shit. This was how people ended up in the news.
This was how his mother ended up saying I told you so with devastating accuracy.
But he knew he wasn’t walking away. Not tonight.
If she jumped, he’d jump. If she sank, he’d dive after her, just to hold onto this a little while longer.
“Fine. We take it out for an hour and bring it back before anyone notices it’s missing. But if we get caught, I’m claiming you kidnapped me.”
Ella’s lips twitched. “Deal.”
Without a word, she swung her handbag and let it thud into the boat. Nate flinched, eyes scanning the pier.
“You always this impulsive?” he asked, a half-laugh hiding in his voice, the kind that couldn’t quite mask the fact that his pulse had jumped.
Ella considered the question and shook her head. “No. That’s the funny part.” She hoisted herself over the railing, disappearing for a moment before straightening on the deck and stretching out her fingers toward him. “Hanging out with you makes me feel like I can do things.”
“Like?”
“Oh, big things. Wrong things. Anything things,” she said offhand, as if the words weren’t important until they were already out.
Nate grabbed her arm and climbed into the boat. “I’m not sure that’s the compliment you think it is.”
Ella smirked and dropped to her knees near the cockpit, digging around in a storage compartment. The dull glow of the dashboard caught the polished chrome trim and cream leather seats, the glossy dials, and digital readouts twinkling faintly in the low light.
“Do I want to know what you’re doing?” Nate asked, stashing the backpack on the console.
“Nope!” she called brightly.
A second later she sprang up, brandishing a key. “Knew it!”
Nate blinked. “No way. They just leave it there?”
She twirled the key between her fingers. “Money makes people lazy. And seriously, who’d be dumb enough to swipe a toy like this?”
“You mean borrow?”
“Right. That.”
Nate couldn’t help it. He laughed.
“And yet, you’re here.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Admit it. You like me.”
“I like that you’re a weirdo.” He plucked the key from her fingers.
“Oh,” she said, her grin widening, “so you’re driving?”
“Uh-huh.” He eased into the pilot’s chair and slipped the key into the ignition. “You’ve done enough. My turn.”
“You know that makes you complicit, right?”
Nate rolled his eyes as he turned the key. “Yeah, yeah.”
“And you’re sure you can operate this thing?”
He shot her a look. “Used to fish out on Lake St. Clair back in Detroit. I’ve handled boats plenty.” He left out the part where some of the boats had a camera crew.
Ella leaned over the side to untie the rope mooring the boat to the dock. “Well, Captain,” she said, giving the rope a final tug before it slithered into the water, “let’s see what you’ve got.”
Nate eased the throttle forward, and the boat slid into the lake, the hull cutting smoothly through the water. The wake spread wide behind them, silver and flickering in the moonlight. Ella’s hair whipped around her face, catching the breeze like a banner.
Eventually, the nearest shoreline lights blinked small in the distance, pinpricks against the darkness.
Nate killed the engine. The sudden silence arrived all at once.
It wasn’t true silence: water tapped against the hull in irregular rhythms, but compared to the growl of the motor, it felt enormous.
Like they’d slipped sideways out of time.
The boat swayed slightly as they drifted, the current taking them where it pleased. Ella let out a satisfied sigh. “Admit it,” she said, tipping her face up to the night sky. “This was a brilliant, terrible idea.”
Nate shook his head. “I’d say ninety percent terrible. Ten percent? I might live to see tomorrow.”
“Ah, so still technically brilliant,” she countered, poking the backpack. “Go on, open it.”
Nate lifted the zipper. Inside, nestled like contraband, was a bottle of champagne wrapped in a T-shirt. Two slim flutes lay tucked beside it, protected in socks.
He blinked up at her. “You packed glassware?”
“I have some standards,” she said primly.
Nate wedged the bottle between his knees, twisted the wire cage loose, and eased the cork out with a pop. The sound cracked across the water. Both of them froze on instinct, listening.
Nothing but water lapping against fiberglass.
“See?” Ella said. “The universe approves.”
“Or it’s building suspense,” Nate replied, but he was already pouring, tipping each flute with exaggerated care, determined not to waste a drop. He handed her a glass and grabbed the bottle by the neck. “Come on.”
They clambered along the narrow side deck, fingers grazing the rail for balance, the boat shifting under their weight. At the bow, the space opened up, smooth and curved, the dark windshield arching behind them like a shield.
Ella settled first, lowering herself and leaning back against the slanted glass of the cockpit. Nate followed, stretching out beside her, their shoulders brushing, knees nearly touching. He set the bottle down between them, anchoring it with his foot.
“Prost,” Ella said, her accent rounding the word.
“Prost,” Nate echoed, tapping his glass against hers.
For a while, they lay there sipping the champagne, as Ella occasionally pointed toward the distant shore.
“Ooh, those lights? Probably Nyon,” she said, gesturing toward a cluster of twinkling dots. Then, tilting her head toward the other side of the lake, “And that… Yvoire. French side.”
“Anywhere you haven’t been?”
Ella made a small, noncommittal sound.
They drained their glasses, and Nate grabbed the bottle, topping them up. The breeze tangled their hair, brushing against their faces as they sank back against the glass of the cockpit.
Nate squinted at the stars, jabbing a finger into the darkness. “That one there: Orion’s Belt. See? The hourglass thing. Classic.”
Ella scrunched her nose. “Uh, no. That’s Canis Major. A dog, Nate. You can’t just draw shapes and call it a constellation.”
“Oh, learned that in art school, did you?”
“Boarding school,” she corrected, smirking.
“Of course you did.” He nudged her with his elbow. “Seriously, you don’t know Latin, do you?”
“No,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Dick.”
“Come on. Ella.”
“Okay, fine,” she said, chuckling. “Like ten words. My parents insisted it would be useful.” She shrugged. “Turns out, not so much.”