The Wrong Gentleman

Twenty-One

Skylar

“I’m exhausted,” August said, collapsing onto the rattan chair next to mine with a cocktail. We’d found the cheapest bar in Monte Carlo that had a view over the ocean. It was still one of the most expensive bars in Europe, but it was worth it. The breeze from the water cooled the temperature to perfect, the twinkling lights of the marina provided the best lighting, and my drink had just the right amount of vodka in it.

“We all are,” Peter replied from across the low wooden table. “It’s been a long day. But it’s done. No guests and a yacht where you could eat off any surface.”

“Now we can party,” August said.

After Walt and his guests had unexpectedly left, the captain had said that if the yacht was pristine by the end of the day, we could all have twenty-four hours leave. There was nothing more exciting than unexpected time off mid-season. We’d all worked frantically—nothing like freedom as a motivator.

“Who’s getting a hotel?” August asked. “I’m pissed my boyfriend can’t get leave. He’s in freaking Italy.”

“Hotels in Monaco are going to be pricey,” I said. If we’d been in Saint Tropez or Nice or one of the smaller Italian ports, I would have definitely splurged to spend some time on dry land, but Monaco was a different world.

“Fuck it, I’m doing it,” Anton said, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen. “I see it as an investment in my sanity.”

“And your penis,” August said. “Because no one on the boat is going to help end your dry spell, and you know the rule about bringing people back. Anyone else tempted?”

“I’ve booked something,” Landon said, stretching his legs out in front of him, under the table, his shin sliding against mine. Had he meant to touch me?

“You’ve booked a hotel room?” I asked. “How come?” Was he planning to get laid? Why wouldn’t he? He was single and hot. A wedge of frustration settled in my stomach. The idea of him with someone else . . . It seemed wrong. But I had no claim to him. I’d told myself over and over that Landon wasn’t right for me. So why was I irritated at the thought of him kissing someone else?

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m a thirty-two-year-old man who has an opportunity to have a room to myself tonight—I’m going to take it.”

He looked at me as if he could read my thoughts and slid his leg against mine—this time it was definitely on purpose.

I didn’t move. Didn’t take my eyes from him. The rest of the table began to talk among themselves, leaving Landon and me to have a semi-private conversation.

“What happened to you this afternoon?” I asked. I w

anted to know why he was booking a hotel room in Monaco. Was it really so he didn’t have to share a room for the night? Or had he had a call from an ex-girlfriend last night after his shift who was in town, or maybe he’d found someone on Tinder.

“What happened?” he asked, grinning at me.

“You went ashore this afternoon for no apparent reason.” Maybe he’d met someone earlier today and that was why he’d been so keen to be off the yacht.

Landon chuckled. “There was a reason.”

“So what was it?” I should have dropped it. It was none of my business, but I didn’t like the idea that he was keeping something from me. I wanted to be the person he confided in. I wanted to be his friend.

“I went to get migraine meds,” he replied. “And I picked up some tampons for August at the same time, if you must know.”

August turned toward us at the sound of her name. “He saved my ass. Or my vagina, depending on how you look at it,” she said.

“You went tampon shopping for August?”

Landon chuckled. “Yeah. There were so many choices.” He shook his head. “Who knew?”

Conversation descended into discussing periods and whether it was an assault on masculinity to shop for tampons.

“If you’re scared to buy tampons, you’ve probably never been to war,” Landon said and took a swig from his beer bottle. “Stuff like that really doesn’t matter.”

That silenced the table, and my desire to question him. I’d never met a man like Landon—a man who’d fought for his country, who had done important things. He was right, most people concerned themselves with stuff that really didn’t matter. I’d learned that yachting. I’d gone from living in a group foster home to a multimillion-pound yacht. The difference was stark.

That was the thing about Landon, he was just different. His time in the army, his quiet dominance, and the way he made me feel when he was near me.

“I’m ready to eat,” Landon announced. “Anyone want to join me?”