Page 23 of The Cruiser
He’s pretty much perfect, all symmetry and angles that defy the natural world. Windswept bangs Harry Styles no longer has the market cornered on. And he smells better than any man has a right to. I thought I was prepared to see him again, but he’s too much hotness in one man. The best of Europe funnelled into a single human.
Sensory overload.
I smile, just to do something.
“My car’s out front,” he says. “Shall we?”
As we cross the lobby, I can feel the eyes of staff and hotel guests following us. This is Morgan’s world and damn, he looks good in it. He’s effortlessly stylish in dove-grey dress pants and a soft white dress shirt, links of rubies and diamonds glittering on the French cuffs. “We’re doing lunch at the Yacht Club. I’ll give you an overview of what to expect,” Morgan says. “Bring you up to speed on the company, our expansion plans.”
“That’s a great idea. I should be familiar with you and your story.”
In the hotel roundabout, Morgan pops open the passenger door of a gleaming, midnight blue vehicle. Flashy cars are a dime a dozen in LA, but the description of car doesn’t do this thing justice. Part fantasy creature, part racing machine, part carbon fiber work of art, it’s the stuff of Elon Musk’s dreams. I slip into a divine sanctuary of fine leather and impossible curves. A cockpit, really.
“I’ve never seen one of these before,” I say, admiring the craftsmanship.
He slides into the driver’s seat and tugs on thin, leather driving gloves. “It’s a Bugatti Chiron. Limited production. Less than three hundred in the world.”
He fires up the engine, and a beastly growl vibrates into the warmth of my throat. June’s the car nut—she can’t get enough of all the power and design specs. What I like about cars has nothing to do with speed. This interior is tricky, though.
I wonder if he’s done it in here.
“You okay with a bit of speed?” Morgan clocks the look on my face, the one that has no business being there, but interprets it differently.
No, I’m not fantasizing about you. Carry on.
“Go for it,” I say.
Gunning the engine, he takes off with tires squealing. The Chiron blisters along every curve in the road, but I don’t feel unsafe. He’s a skilled driver. Aggressive, like June. We’re heading west, judging from the towering peaks of rock to my right. Monaco is built into the mountainside, a city stacked like Asian rice paddies tiered with apartment towers instead of grain. I like how close the mountains are. Blush-pink rock I can almost reach out and touch.
“Have you lived in Monaco your whole life?” I ask.
“Close enough,” he says. “I grew up outside of Nice but moved to Monaco when I started my company.”
“You mentioned in LA you were born on a boat. That must have been quite the experience for your parents.”
“My father is like me, a lover of the water. He insisted his son be born at sea.”
“Your mother had no say?” I ask in disbelief.
He flashes a winning smile. “The de Rohan-Chabot men can be very persuasive. She loved the idea, in all honesty. Boats are in our blood.”
A pang of jealousy hits me harder than expected. I can’t compare myself in any way to my parents. The only shared thing in our blood is platelets.
But it reminds me to share a detail of my own.
“I probably should have mentioned this, but I’ve never set foot on a yacht before.”
“Really?” He looks over in shock. “How do you feel about the ocean, boats in general?”
“I love the water. Don’t spend nearly as much time at the beach as I used to though. Yachts … I don’t know anyone who owns one, but to me, they seem to say adventure. The ability to get away from it all.”
An amber traffic light switches to red and Morgan downshifts to stop. “I spend weeks at a time on the water. I couldn’t imagine life any other way.”
“Weeks? You don’t get lonely by yourself?”
“I’m not always by myself.”
Morgan turns to watch me quietly die of embarrassment in the passenger seat. Oh, god. Derek used to laugh at the stuff that flew out of my mouth. Think before you talk, V, he’d joke—sort of.
