We’d been together long enough for me to know he did it on purpose. He lived to turn me on and then leave me hanging in a state of arousal, convinced it made my orgasms come quicker.
This time, it backfired on him. Once the engine was off and the sails were up, my stomach began to churn. I tried to push through. I hadn’t had much for breakfast and that had been hours ago, so maybe all I needed was some food in my belly. As Hilde prepared our salads, I silently pleaded for her to hurry, and when he poured me a glass of wine, I eagerly took it.
But the longer we sailed, the worse the pitch and roll of the boat seemed to become and it made sure sex was the last thing on my mind. Once we were served, I scarfed down my salad, not even tasting it.
“Evangeline and I,” he said, “have decided to end our relationship, but we will remain friends.”
It was hard to focus what he was saying, because it was taking all my strength to hold it together. “Oh, yeah?”
“We’ve,” he said it like he was contractually obligated, “dated for five months. That seemed like an acceptable amount of time to the both of us.”
“Mm, hm.” I pressed my lips together.
“You look displeased.” He peered at me with confusion. “You don’t agree?”
“No, I do.” I forced out a tight smile, not wanting him to know I wasn’t feeling well. “Will you really stay friends, or is that just the official line?”
He set his fork down and wiped his lips with his napkin. “I’d like to think we will. Does that bother you?”
He’d confessed to me a few weeks ago he hadn’t kissed her on the lips the night of their first ‘date.’ There was no spark or chemistry between them, and he’d implied I was the cause of it. The fire between us was too powerful and consuming for him to be interested in anyone else.
“No,” I said, “it doesn’t bother me at all. I’m glad you’ve made a friend.”
He gave a pleased smile.
As soon as it faded, I was anxious again. The food and wine did nothing to settle my stomach. If anything, they made it worse, and I tried not to watch Hilde over his shoulder as she worked to prepare our lobster risotto. She always had one hand steadying herself to the counter or a cabinet as she swayed with the sea, making it look natural.
But it was very unnatural to my inner ear, and I couldn’t disguise it any longer.
“Hilde,” Macalister’s voice barely hid his alarm, “do we have ginger ale aboard?”
“No, sir, but we have some ginger candies. Should I—”
“Yes,” he ordered.
She set down her spoon, retrieved a box from a cabinet, and brought it to the table. When she glanced at me, her attention moved on to Macalister. “Oh, she doesn’t look well.”
“No,” he said, irritated, although it seemed to be with himself.
“We have Dramamine,” she said to me. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, please.” When she went to fetch it, I sighed and put my weary gaze on him. “Usually, the way that works is it knocks me out, and I sleep through my motion sickness.”
He said nothing as she reappeared and handed me a packet.
“I think we have ginger tea too,” she added. “I’ll boil some water.”
I tore the foil open and downed the tablets. Best case scenario, the drug would start working in thirty minutes.
He opened the box of candies, unwrapped the green wrapper, and as he passed it to me, the boat pitched dramatically, making our plates slide across the table. I stared at him with a pained expression. There wasn’t enough ginger in the world to overcome thirty minutes of this, let alone an afternoon.
“Move over,” he ordered, rising from his seat and moving to sit beside me. “Give me your hands.”
I popped the white candy into my mouth, grimacing at the taste, and did as he asked. He grabbed my forearms, his hands a fist’s length away from my wrists, and pressed his thumbs into the soft undersides. It was sort of uncomfortable, but I knew what he was doing. Acupressure.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Annoyance tinged his words. “The forecast said the wind wasn’t arriving until tomorrow.”
“To be early is to be on time,” I said dimly, throwing his platitude from my first day back at him, but he wasn’t amused. The nausea made me weak and destroyed whatever filter I had. “The great Macalister Hale can control a lot of things, but apparently not the weather.”
The boat pitched again, and water sloshed violently against the hull.
He pressed harder into my pressure points. “Better?”
I wished, but I was miserable. He searched my face like he would determine my answer himself, regardless of whatever I said.