Chapter 2

The pool deck was quiet enough at mid-morning that Andrea had her choice of chairs. She angled one toward the sun, arranged her towel, and opened her Kindle to page fifty-three of a novel that she would deny reading if anyone she knew ever asked.

The premise was, objectively, insane. An ice planet. Blue barbarians. A spaceship full of women who had not expected any of this. And yet somehow the author had made her care desperately about whether the barbarian was going to find his mate, and she was already doing the math on how many books were in the series—

Twenty-three, as it turned out.

She smiled at the screen. The cruise was covered.

Dylan had been barely functional at breakfast. She’d pushed three cups of coffee into him and watched the lights come back on slowly. He’d apologized twice, which she’d waved off, and then he’d gone to his first meeting looking approximately human. She’d stood in the corridor watching him go, thinking that she was going to have to say something about the drinking before the week was over, then reminding herself that she wasn’t his mother before going to find a pool chair.

She was deep into the second chapter when the shadow fell over her.

“The Caribbean sun is stronger than it looks.”

She lowered the Kindle.

Carl stood beside her chair in nothing but a dark swimsuit, and Andrea’s brain took approximately half a second to process the information before temporarily going offline. He was, there was no neutral way to say this, built like something that belonged in a museum, the kind of body that made you want to look for the sculptor’s signature. He had wide shoulders, the chest and arms of a man who had spent decades doing something physically real, and an abdomen that had no business existing on someone who was apparently also a CEO.

She was aware that her mouth was open and closed it.

“Sunscreen,” she managed.

“I was going to offer to get you some.” He was smiling. He had watched her stare. Of course he had. “Or an umbrella.”

“Sunscreen. I meant—yes. I forgot to bring any.”

He sat on the edge of the adjacent chair without being invited, picked up the bottle from the small table between them, and held it out. “Roll over.”

It landed somewhere between suggestion and instruction, and the thing that bothered her most was how natural it felt to comply, the way you follow a command from someone who simply expects to be obeyed. She turned onto her stomach, settled her chin on her crossed arms, and told herself this was just sunscreen. Normal poolside sunscreen. Nothing was happening.

His hands settled on her shoulders, and Andrea stopped telling herself anything.

He worked slowly, in deliberate and unhurried motions that covered her shoulders, the back of her neck, down her arms to her wrists. Every stroke was certain. He knew exactly how much pressure to use and where, and she lay still under his hands with her eyes closed and her jaw slightly clenched, trying to keep her breathing even.

“You should get a bikini,” he said conversationally, smoothing lotion down the length of her spine. “There’s a shop on board.”

“I didn’t have time to—” She stopped herself. She was about to apologize for wearing a one piece swimsuit to a man who was currently running his hands down her back. “Yes. I’ll go today.”

He moved to her legs. He used long, patient strokes from her calves upward, and when his hands reached the inner curve of her thighs, Andrea’s legs trembled—a small, involuntary shudder she could not control and prayed he didn’t notice. The heat that moved through her had nothing to do with the Caribbean sun. She pressed her face into the towel and focused on breathing.

“You tense up,” he said. “Your body is carrying stress.”

“Work,” she said into the lounge chair. It was true.

“Or is Dylan’s anxiety contagious?” The question wasn’t casual, despite how lightly he asked it.

Andrea turned her head slightly. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.” He was working down her spine now, the touch still professional. Still wrong to want more. “I just noticed that you seem to be managing his fear about the acquisition.”

She stiffened. “He’s worried about losing his job.”

“He should be concerned.” Carl’s voice was matter-of-fact. “We’re reducing management positions. It’s business.”

Andrea rolled onto her side, gripping the edge of the lounge chair. “Are you telling me that or warning me?”

“I’m making conversation.” He sat back, giving her space. “He’s a good engineer. Probably safe. He’s probably catastrophizing. But we both remember Briarstone.”