Outmatched

“I guess you don’t,” I conceded as I straightened my shoulders. “We should find Fairchild and remind him I exist.”

Rhys decided to give me that, not pushing the subject of my parents, which I appreciated. We moved down to the middle deck where Fairchild conversed with a group of men while women in string bikinis lounged behind them in a hot tub.

It was a clichéd scene that belonged in the 1980s. This yacht was my worst nightmare.

“Ah, there he is!” Fairchild spotted Rhys. “Men, you have to meet Morgan. Morgan, come here.”

Rhys tightened his grip on my hand and led me over.

Whatever he’d been feeling earlier, Rhys let go as he charmed Fairchild and the men around him. They asked about his days as a heavyweight champion, an existence that was such a far cry from their own, and Rhys indulged them. My boss, Jackson, appeared with Camille, along with a few colleagues and their partners. We spoke a little, a light relief at a party that made me uncomfortable, but they soon dispersed among the crowds. Except Jackson who stayed with Fairchild, listening to Rhys.

Other people joined and left the conversation, businessmen and women, members of Boston society, and Rhys handled them all with amazing aplomb. It occurred to me that, during his professional boxing days, he would have been surrounded by wealthy people. He was used to them.

He was better with them than I was, and I grew up in this world.

As the night wore on, I longed to be back in my apartment, curled up on my bed with the fantasy novel I was in the middle of. It was about faeries and war and romance and kick-ass heroines.

Or I’d prefer to be hanging out with the guys. “The guys” were my friends from MIT who hadn’t left Boston. Every second week we found a quiz night to attend and took far too much pleasure in annihilating our competitors.

Rhys was in the middle of convincing Fairchild and a few of his friends to drop by the gym for boxing lessons when I felt a hand on the small of my back. I turned sharply and looked up into a smiling, familiar face.

Stephen Chancer.

An ex.

Ish.

We’d gone on three dates. I’d slept with him on the third and then told him it wasn’t going to work out. Mostly because if I couldn’t stop thinking about electricity markets with high wind penetration during his penetration then I was calling it a fail.

However, my concern wasn’t over bumping into a man I’d rejected. He and I had been set up by his aunt, who knew my mother. For the most part I’d avoided mingling with East Coast society during my time at MIT, much to my mother’s despair. Stephen was the one time I’d let myself slip into that world, and to be honest, it wasn’t just his lack of industry in the bedroom that made me call it quits. He relied too much on his parents’ money and was kind of a snob.

None of that mattered now.

What mattered was him telling his aunt I was dating ex-boxer Rhys Morgan.

“Stephen, hi.” I flicked a wary look at Rhys who was too busy answering whatever question Fairchild had asked to notice who I was talking to.

“It’s so good to see you.” At five foot seven, Stephen didn’t have to bend his head far to press a kiss to the corner of my mouth as I turned to him.

I frowned at the intimacy and shuffled a little away. Stephen followed me. He’d never really been aware of the whole personal space thing.

Oh boy.

“How have you been? What are you doing here?” he asked.

Go away, go away, go away.

“I’m well, thank you. Mr. Fairchild is the CEO of the company I work for. Horus Renewable Energy.”

“That’s great.” He raised his champagne flute to me. “My father is in business with Fairchild. He couldn’t be here tonight, so I came in his stead. My date”—he glanced around the deck—“is around here somewhere.” Stephen turned back to me, eyeing me speculatively. “Did you come here alone?”

“No, she’s with me.” Rhys suddenly appeared at my side, his arm sliding around my back to rest possessively on my opposite hip. I felt his lips brush my forehead. “You okay, sweetheart?”

I glanced up at him. His appearance was not good. Now Stephen would find out and possibly tell his aunt who would then tell my mother and the world would implode. So if that was true, why did I find myself relaxing against Rhys and wishing he’d take my hand and lead me out of the party to his sexy bike?

I nodded, struck mute by the thought.

“I’m Stephen.” The aforementioned held out his hand to Rhys. “Parker’s ex-boyfriend. You are?”

Rhys grabbed Stephen’s hand and gave him a rough handshake that made Stephen, my so-not-ex-boyfriend, wince. “I’m Rhys. I’m Parker’s.”