Worship (On My Knees Duet 1)

I return from the cabin to find him sitting on one of the padded benches, his elbows on his knees, one hand pushed into his tangled hair. I turn a light on, casting the deck in amber. Then I drag the cooler in front of him and take a seat atop it.

As I open the first aid kit, the salty breeze kicks up a bite of his scent: sunscreen and warm, male skin. When I look up, I notice the hand that’s curved around his forehead seems to be shaking.

“You okay?”

He lowers his arm. “Yeah.” But his face is drawn. His cheeks and jaw are covered with rough stubble, his lips cracked in one corner. He probably had a miserable day on that island. Had to have been pretty desperate to swim out to an unknown vessel.

I lean in closer, squinting at the gash above his brow. It’s about an inch or so long, seeping blood, but not split open too wide. “Doesn’t look like I got you too bad,” I say quietly. “You seeing double, anything like that?”

He mumbles, “No.” His eyes are cast down. They swing up to mine, and I give him a look I hope says sorry for the head wound.

He smirks. “Hell of a welcome.”

“After the fancy invitation, too.”

“Touché.”

I grin, then rip open a Betadine swab. “So, not much fresh water on that little island?”

“None,” he says.

“You want some more?”

He nods, and I get another bottle. I watch as he chugs some and then twists the cap back on.

“A day’s a long time without water.”

“Cracked open a coconut.” He lifts his brows, twists his full lips. My pulse surges like an ocean wave as he grins.

“How was it?”

“Pretty bad.”

“That’s disappointing.” I hold the swab up. “I don’t think this stuff will sting, but…”

He shuts his eyes, and I lean in—close enough that I can feel his breath against my face. I hold mine so he can’t smell the scotch on it.

So far, I think he’s been too distracted to take a good look at my face. It’s too soon to say if he’ll recognize me.

I rub the swab’s rust-orange tip over the gash, and he stiffens. “Hurt?” I murmur.

“Just cold.”

I see his Adam’s apple bob as I paint the wound once more. Then, with some relief, I lean away.

“I don’t think it’s deep enough to require stitches. A little Neosporin and a butterfly bandage, and you should be set.”

He nods once, and I note his long, thick lashes before diverting my gaze to the first aid kit.

“So what’s your poison?” I ask.

He looks up, and I give him what I hope is a friendly-but-not-too-much smile. Polite—that’s what I guess I need to aim for. And don’t I know polite professional?

I clarify, “What were you drinking when your ship sailed without you?”

His lips twitch at the corners, and he shakes his head, wincing a little. “Tequila.” I like his voice. It’s nice and rich, with just a hint of Brooklyn.

I think of the article about his broken engagement. “Tequila, huh?” I gesture to his head. “I got you with a bottle of my favorite scotch.”

The words spill from my mouth, and instantly, I wonder why I let my guard down.

“Good aim,” he says.

“Big shock.”

“Sorry,” he says, sounding sincere. “When I saw you anchored so close, I knew I could swim it fast. I was fucking thirsty. Bad thirsty. No clue when the tour people would be back. Didn’t plan to crash your party, but I felt something out there—something in the water brushed my leg.”

“Then I threw you right back in, huh?” I tape a butterfly bandage over his cut, then add one more for good measure. “Two’ll cut down on the scar,” I murmur.

Again, that little quirk of a grin. “Can’t be too careful with the money maker.” He snorts, and my gaze dips to those long eyelashes…to his lips. I know I should stop, but I can’t seem to. It must be the scotch.

I lean away. “You hungry?”

He shrugs.

“Let’s head into the cabin. More to drink in there—cold stuff. I think I might even have some coconut water.”

He makes a mnh sound, and I chuckle as I lead the way. As I step inside the yacht’s main living area, I shift a magazine atop a stack of books with titles I don’t want him seeing. I drag my gaze around the space, checking for anything else that could reveal my identity. Then I turn to him.

He looks like what he is: someone who’s been stranded on an island. His cinnamon brown hair looks wild and tangled, but I imagine after a wash, it would be thick and slightly wavy. His eyes are blue-gray, and they’ve got that tired look people get from being in the sun all day. His skin is deeply tanned, though sunburned red at tender spots along his chest and his neck. My gaze falls to his chest. Here in the light, it looks more sculpted.