Page 90 of The Cruiser
“Imagine if you only had one client and full control over them,” he says.
I bump him with my hip and laugh. “I wonder how long that would last. The control part.”
"I mean it,” he says, “what we talked about." His eyes turn serious and search mine. "You could accomplish so much here, whether it’s PR or pursuing design.”
Everything he has offered me is the right side of the Cinderella story. The promise of it is so enticing. But playing for keeps this early in the game has bitten me in the ass one too many times. And I still have to untangle myself from Derek.
“I think so too,” I say, adding the disclaimer, “in time.”
I hear his hard swallow, how he chases it away with wine. “How soon do you think you’ll be back?”
“I can’t answer that right now,” I say, being gentle with the truth. “There’s a lot to sort out, and it can’t happen from here.”
For a long time, he says nothing, his focus on the dark water. It strikes me this is how I first laid eyes on him—side profile, illuminated by the moon, lost at sea.
“But it’s over, no? You and him?” He asks this without looking at me.
“Very much so.”
I lean against him, finding comfort in his strong frame so intent on punishing me in all the right ways. He makes space and brings me into the fold of his arm. It feels like I’m breathing and somehow not, and the magic of it isn't surprising because if magic exists, this is it, a moonlit night in Monaco, after a champagne blur of tangled limbs, floating on waves, and yacht design dreams coming true.
“You smell great,” he says.
“Like what?”
I look up at him, thinking he means the scent of his sweater I’ve borrowed. It drapes on me like a cozy, second skin.
“Like us.”
He kisses me sweetly before his wayward tongue opens me up with unabashed clarity of intent. Absolutely naked is how that tongue wants me. In no time at all, we find ourselves in his bedroom, on the platform bed, leaving each other breathless with only one thing on our minds.
Until a mournful meowing starts.
Morgan pulls back with a borderline embarrassed smile. “Can you give me a minute? I need to say goodnight to my team. They get funny when I lock them out of the bedroom.”
I bite back a laugh—Morgan at the mercy of his cats. “No problem. Can I pop downstairs while you do that? I forgot my bag in your car.”
“What do you need out of it?” he asks. “I have an extra toothbrush and all the toiletries.”
Crooked up on one elbow, his eyes are dilated, the swirling intensity back with a vengeance. I know what that means. And I have no interest in missing a minute of it.
“I can grab it in the morning.”
While he sorts out the cats, I brush my teeth with his loaner and wonder what it would be like to wake up every morning and walk right into his open shower. Wash my hair with a view of Grace Kelly’s former palace. Get wet with him and put the tiled bench to good use.
Maybe we can give it a test run tomorrow.
When I come out, Morgan’s in bed texting. At the sight of me, a smile of pure wonder takes over his face. I’m going for broke, leveling up to his game in the nudity department. Venus de Milo, eat your heart out.
“Where did you come from?” he says.
I toss my hair, go for the full effect. “La-la land.”
He laughs, sets the phone aside, and opens up the duvet for me to climb in. We spoon under the covers and he’s warm as a furnace, heartbeat slow and steady against my spine. My body melts, ready to relax, but after seeing Morgan on his phone, my mind jumps ahead to tomorrow. A full day of meetings and, after the show closes at five, it's off to the Royal Morgan Yachts office to meet the team.
My first Olivier encounter.
He intrigues me in that I'm not sure what to expect. Few photos of him exist online. None, to be precise. I looked the other night. His only social profile is on LinkedIn, a yacht instead of a personal picture. Everything I’ve heard so far points to negative, but maybe he’ll throw me for a loop and be an absolute charmer.
