But now, when he might already be gone and this day could be my last day…
Now, I wish I’d taken the chance, risked the pain of heartbreak for even an hour of pleasure.
Life’s too short.
It’s always been too short. But sometimes it takes moments like these, zooming across the water so fast the wind feels like it’s ripping my eyelashes from my lids, heart lodged in my throat, chest aching with terror, to realize at a visceral level that this is all temporary. Every moment is a gift, every second a chance to live a better life than the second before.
I don’t have to repeat the same mistakes.
I don’t have to stay on the sidelines.
Just because love has kicked my ass every time I’ve taken the field doesn’t mean I’m going to keep losing. Even a broken clock is right two times a day.
And I’m not broken.
My heart still works.
It works so well that by the time I’ve closed the distance to the slower moving boat, it feels like my ribs have been beaten from the inside.
I need Nick to be okay so much it hurts.
Thankfully, I’m starting to think Fate is on my side this time.
I zoom into the boat’s churning wake, jumping it on my Jet Ski to pull up behind. So far, no one has opened fire. I can’t see anyone on deck, in fact, but the front of the vessel is blocked from view by the enclosed stairs leading to the bridge.
I’m not sure who’s steering, but the boat is definitely veering to the right. Sooner or later, it’s going to curve back around toward the shore on the more populated side of the island, where the water is shallow and stretches of coral reef lurk beneath the waves.
Best to get the course corrected before then.
Or, better yet, get Nick and Beatrice off the damned thing and let Blaire and Stefano figure out how to not run aground on their own. The Jet Ski is built for two people, but Beatrice and I are both on the smaller side. We can squish together in the back and let Nick steer.
Please let him still be able to steer, I silently plead as I pull up alongside the hull and reach for the ladder.
Holding tight to one slick rung, I loop the rope at the front of the Jet Ski over the ladder, making a mooring knot and pulling it tight. And then I start to climb, arms still vibrating from the rumble of the Jet Ski beneath my palms.
But my hands are steady.
When I draw the gun just before I reach for the last rung, you could balance a china tea set on the back of my hand.
Stomach coiling tight behind my ribs, I exhale, releasing tension and expectation, preparing myself to receive whatever awaits on the other side of the damp wood.
Preconceptions, fear, and projection will all slow my response time. One of the first things we learned in spy school is to clear our heads and see what’s really there, not what we expect to be there. The faster you process reality, the faster you can respond.
I do my best, but I’d be lying if I said visions of Nick lying dead on the deck weren’t flickering on my mental screen as I peer over the railing, climb over the edge, and stalk quietly toward the front of the boat.
Logic insists it’s unlikely Nick came out ahead in this situation, not with all the odds against him.
So to say I’m unprepared for what I find when I round the cabin to the forward deck is an understatement.
Of serious proportions.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nickolas
Beatrice ties an impressive knot, securing the now-gagged Blaire’s shoulders to the back of one of the seats near the front of the boat.
“Okay, that’s it,” Bea says, shoving her fuzzy curls from her face as she straightens. “I’m never dating again. Seriously, Nick. If I try, I give you permission to lock me in a tower somewhere in the Gallantian countryside and feed me only bread and water until I come to my senses.”
I rest what I hope is a comforting hand on her shoulder, but before I can assure her that we all make mistakes in love, or ask her to keep a sharp eye on Blaire while I turn the ship around, a voice calls my name from the deck behind me.
I spin to see Zan—soaking wet and wearing a bright orange life jacket over her cover-up—running toward me.
Heart swelling with relief, I open my arms.
A beat later, she’s in them, hugging my neck so tight her feet come off the deck. “You’re okay,” she pants, her breath warm on my neck. “Thank God, you’re okay.”
“Same to you.” I band my arms around her and squeeze, grunting as something hard and familiar presses into my ribs. “Is that a gun in your lifejacket, or are you just happy to see me?”