Chapter 7
Liz
One moment I’m deep in a swamp of self-pity. The next, his lips are on mine and it's like a drug courses through my veins. I find myself kissing him back, my hand reaching for the back of his head to pull him in deeper. My tongue is just reaching forward to break the barrier that is my lips when he pulls away suddenly and the car swerves to the right. A trailing horn beside us has both our hearts beating. Neither of us realized that Michael had drifted into the other lane during our not-swift-enough kiss.
I can just barely hear his breath over the heartbeat pounding in my ears. In just one moment, everything has changed. All thoughts of what I would do when I came in for work tomorrow, not even the faintest bit sick, have been erased. I’m no longer wondering whether I’ve made the right decision in following this perfect stranger. Gone are all doubts that this is going in any way but one direction: a lust-fueled embrace while we’re out at sea alone. Images of what this might entail flash through my mind, but Michael’s voice cuts across them, bringing me back to reality.
“Sorry about that,” he says. Something inside of me falls, like a heavy weight is suddenly latched around my heart. I’m sure that he’s feeling the opposite from me. That he’s regretting every decision that has led him up to this point. That kiss must have had the opposite effect on him: sobering him up to the horrid mistake he’s just made. Now, looking over at plain me, Michael has realized the colossal mistake he’s just made. That’s what has brought him to apologize for the kiss. But then, when all my hope is about to fly out the window, he adds, “I’m usually a really good driver, I swear.”
“It’s fine,” I say, licking at my lips, remembering where they were just seconds ago.
“Anyway,” he says and puts on the blinker. “We’re almost there.”
We turn off at the next exit. After five minutes of staring out the window at the changing scenery, the ocean finally pops out to greet us. Michael parks the car at a marina called Liberty Harbor. When he shuts off the car, he looks over at me and asks, “You ready for a little adventure?” He’s got a wild smile pulling at the corners of his lips, like he’s a little boy about to show me a fort he’s built in the forest.
But the fort at the end of the pier is far more than a few sticks leaned against a tree. This isn’t some tiny sailboat. It’s a yacht named Seas the Day. The wordplay makes me snort out a quick puff of air.
“What?” Michael asks in defense. “You’re not one of those people who pretend to hate puns, are you?”
“Who said anything about pretending?” I ask coyly. But the truth is that I can hardly say anything at the sight of the ship Michael is currently helping me step onto. I thought his boat would house a microscopic bedroom down some claustrophobic stairs. Maybe an 80s style kitchenette and a brown living room desperately in need of an update. But I couldn’t have been further from the truth.
This ship is all gleam and shine and sharp angles. And it’s absolutely massive.
I don’t know much about boats, much less the lingo that goes along with them. I know that ‘starboard’ means the right side, but I can never remember if ‘port’ means the left side or the back. And I couldn’t point out a jib amongst a jumble of rigging to save my life. But none of that matters on this ship, because it seems to share more DNA with a luxury car than with any sailing boat.
The deck is large enough to host a party for at least a dozen at the front. All the sofas are fitted with white leather that I can only assume is waterproof. Towards the back is a covered area with more seating and an actual bar stocked with at least a hundred bottles of booze.
“This is unreal,” I say, grazing my fingertips over the smooth bar top. “Who did you say your friend was again?”
“I didn’t,” Michael says, that playful smile back on his face in full force.
“Can I have a look downstairs?” I’m eyeing the door that leads down to what I can only assume to be living quarters far more luxurious than any house I’ve ever lived in.
“First let’s get this thing out of the harbor. Come on,” he says and leads me down a different set of stairs towards the front of the boat where there’s an actual captain’s chair surrounded by dozens of buttons, knobs, and other controls, all hidden safely behind a massive curved window currently facing the harbor. “Ready to help me steer this thing out of here?”
“Me?” I point at my chest. “I can’t drive this.”
“Sure you can,” he says, taking my hand and leading me over to the chair. “Sit here and turn that key.”
“I really can’t.” I say, my hand shaking in his. “I’ll break something. Or everything. Your friend won’t be happy if he finds his yacht at the bottom of the ocean.”
“He’d understand,” he answers somewhat cryptically. Then he’s forcing my hand down to the switch. “Just turn it to the right. Yeah, just like that.”
The key clicks and all the control panels light up. There are even more buttons and dials than I first realized.
“I’m not sure that—”
Michael cuts off my self-doubting whine. “Then take a hold of this lever with your right hand. And this wheel with your left. Got it?”
My hands go where he directs them, but they may as well be the hands of a mannequin. Maybe it’s the stress of imagining driving this (what has to be) multi-million-dollar yacht, but my senses are red lining. So when Michael squats down beside my chair, his hands over mine, his right cheek nearly grazing my left, I feel an instant lust. It’s like that wild side that prompted me to leave everything I knew behind when I was eighteen is back. Like I’m ready to take chances again. Ready to stop surviving and actually start living again. It’s not even a conscious choice I make when I lick my lips before crushing them against his. It’s just like when we were in the car, but this time he doesn’t have to pull away to keep his eyes on the road. And I’m not going anywhere either. Because for the first time in a long time, I’m completely in over my head.
And I’m absolutely loving it.
Chapter 8
Michael
In directing Liz on how to maneuver us out to sea, I manage to maneuver my way into her personal space. It was no mistake that I held her hands under mine. Nor that our cheeks were nearly touching as I directed her where to look. But it was only meant to be flirting. A build-up for more to come. I expe