Walt patted me on the hand. “And I feel the same way, Skylar.” He continued to chew on the pork tenderloin that Anton had made.
“So, no need to take me shopping,” I said.
“Friends can go shopping together, can’t they? And I’m sure as shit they can play poker together. Listen, I get that we will never be lovers—I have a twenty-two-year-old girlfriend back in Dallas, and she keeps me plenty busy. But I like the platonic company of pretty girls. Always have. Say you’ll play poker with me? You never know, you might end up a little richer at the end of the night.”
Walt’s response hadn’t been what I was expecting. Not only did he not fire me, he wanted to be my friend. It didn’t make much sense. It was unusual that guests wanted to hang out with crew, but it did happen. It was usually toward the end of a boozy evening, when most of a party had gone to bed, that guests wanted the crew to start partying with them. But given I’d been upfront with Walt, I figured a night at the casino wasn’t going to be the worst night of my life.
“Sure, that would be lovely, but no need for any shopping. I have a trusty black dress that will do just fine.”
“A woman who doesn’t want me to take her shopping? Well, you are a breath of fresh air.” He chuckled as he set his knife and fork down. I was desperate to clear his plate and disappear downstairs. I couldn’t wait to get back to Landon, sink into his arms, and tell him how I’d told Walt we were strictly in the friend zone.
Thirty-One
Landon
“This bed wasn’t made for two,” Skylar said as we lay on our sides on my bottom bunk, her back to my front.
“This bed wasn’t made for one,” I replied, burrowing my face into her neck, and she giggled.
The sound wound around me, and I pulled her even closer, wanting to feel the vibrations of laughter deep in my belly. I’d never been with a woman like this—fully clothed, but touching, on a bed, knowing it was going to lead nowhere. We were both there to just enjoy each other’s warmth and comfort.
I couldn’t ever remember feeling this fucking content. It was like Skylar had pulled out my DNA, taken one of her polishing cloths to it, and had irrevocably altered my biological makeup. Would things shift back again at the end of the summer? Would I miss this . . . closeness?
“What are you thinking about?” she asked, smoothing her hands over mine, which I had clamped around her waist.
“Nothing.” You, I didn’t say.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” she said.
I exhaled. I wished I could tell her why I was on the yacht. “Christmas is my favorite time of year.”
She jerked in my arms and turned her head toward me. “Really? How . . . sentimental of you. It’s my least favorite holiday,” she said.
I didn’t ask why. Christmas without parents would be tough. Christmas in a children’s home? I couldn’t imagine. “I even like that Mariah Carey song and fake snow. Dry turkey, bad jumpers. The whole thing.”
“Mariah Carey? Really? The Pogues one is much better suited to my mood around that time.”
“I think I could change your mind. Christmas in London is pretty spectacular.”
Shit. Had I implied that she should come to London at Christmas? Because that wasn’t what I’d meant at all. I might be wondering if I’d miss her at the end of the summer, but that didn’t mean I was inviting her back to London.
A beat of silence followed and then she said, “I’ve never been. The Caribbean season is in full swing then. Christmas is just like any other day—serving drinks and making beds.”
Didn’t she want a day off from all that? I wanted her to have the rest of her life off from it. I needed to snap out of it. It really was none of my business, but I wanted to make Skylar’s life better. In the SAS, I was used to trying to improve things for strangers, for nations. As the owner of a private security firm, I was paid to get results. Now I was lying here, wanting to help Skylar—wanting her to have a happy life. A life where she didn’t have to worry about food in her belly and a roof over her head. “Is that your plan next? Go to the Caribbean?”
She paused before she said anything, and I didn’t know whether it was because she didn’t know or whether she was considering what to tell me. “I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I have my plane ticket, if that’s what you mean?”
That wasn’t what I’d meant. I’d hoped she’d thought about what we’d talked about at the beach and had been thinking about what else she could do with her life, but now wasn’t the time. In ten minutes, our break would be over, and we’d be back at our stations. I didn’t want to leave her unsettled. “So, you know my guilty pleasure is Christmas. What’s yours?” I asked.
She relaxed in my arms, and I could almost hear her think. After a couple of minutes, she announced, “Celine Dion.”
I chuckled. “You seemed to take a little while to come up with that. Are you messing with me? Is this some kind of special interrogation technique I don’t know about?”
“Hey! I didn’t judge you for liking Christmas and Mariah Carey,” she said.