NautiCal (Forever Wilde 8)
Cal stood up suddenly. “Shit. That’s my ringtone for my grandfather. Where is it?”
“The captain has it on the bridge. We assumed it was left by someone on the cleaning crew. Along with… their clothing.”
He looked worried. “I need to get it in case something’s wrong at home.” When he moved to stand up, I pressed him back down with a hand to the chest. I tried not noticing the warm feel of his muscles under my fingers.
“You’re not going anywhere, and it only rang once about an hour ago. I’m sure everything is fine. Besides, you can’t be much help from the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”
He looked both worried and resigned, and for some reason his expression made me want to reassure him, which was laughable, considering he was my stowaway.
“How far out are we?” he asked. “Can… can you take me back to St. Mitz? Please? I don’t have any money, but…” He looked around my bedroom as if there were a treasure chest of gold bricks going begging. “I can… work it off? Or…”
I held up a hand. “I’m not sure I’m interested in the kind of work you do.”
His eyes shot wide before they narrowed into a glare. “Sailing?”
“Is that what Prescott brought you on board a motor yacht for? Sailing?”
His cheeks flushed and he looked away again. “Well, that other bit was more of a… volunteer gig.”
“Charity sounds about right,” I said more peevishly than I’d intended. “Considering you couldn’t pay me to touch that piece of shit.”
The idea of this beautiful boy naked in bed with Prescott Resnick made my jaw tick. Lucas’s fiancé was a snake, a man only out for himself. I’d tried so hard to unmask him as a gold digger, but Lucas wouldn’t have it. He’d told me I was biased against everyone he dated, and I couldn’t argue with that. It didn’t mean Pres wasn’t a manipulating asshole though.
Cal’s brows furrowed. “That’s not a nice thing to say about your husband. Even if he is a cheating bastard, Jon.”
“I don’t have a husband. And I go by Worth.”
Something moved behind his eyes for a split second before he grinned. “Ah, then I didn’t do anything wrong. Perfect.”
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to release ridiculous giggles from my chest like bubbles coming up from the last scuba dive I’d taken. When was the last time I’d been so charmed by a stranger?
“I would say stowing away on another man’s ship is considered wrong,” I suggested.
“Is that a euphemism?” His grin was adorable and flirty, and I had to assume he was laying it on thick to keep himself out of trouble. “Because, if so, I’m here for it.”
“Explain yourself,” I demanded again, looming over him.
“Me?” he asked indignantly with a hand to his chest. “You’re the one who kidnapped an innocent victim!”
I stared at him in disbelief. “Kidnapped?”
“Yes. I was just… um… inspecting the closet of this fine… vessel when you…” He sighed and slumped in the chair. “Fine, but can you sit down? You’re making me feel like I’m in some kind of thirties mafia film, and I assure you I don’t know where Bugsy went with the goods.”
I sat down on the side of the bed. “Better?”
His shoulders came down from around his ears. “Marginally.”
“Continue,” I said with a sigh and a Let’s speed this up motion with my hand.
“I was born in a small town in Texas called Hobie,” he began, leaning back in his seat as if to get comfortable. It took me a minute to realize he was actually going to tell me his life story.
“Skip to the part where you boarded my ship.”
“I wish that was a euphemism,” he muttered. “You’re no fun. You would have liked the story about the first time I rode on a pony.” He sniffed and looked at his fingernails. “I can’t imagine what your sex partners think. They’re probably still removing their unmentionables when the door hits them on the way out.”
My heart sped up a little at the sound of the word sex coming out of his mouth, but there was no way I was touching someone who’d slept with my brother’s fiancé. “Focus, Calvin,” I warned.
“It’s Calgary actually.”
“Sure it is. How did you meet Prescott?”
“We were dancing in a club when he asked me to come back to his yacht.”
Why didn’t that surprise me? “He told you this was his boat?”
“Technically, this is considered a ship. That’s something most yacht owners tend to know. Are you sure you own it? The way you can tell is—”
“I know how to tell,” I snapped. “I have a captain’s license. Stop correcting me.”
“Yes, he told me the Worthington was his. Then when we heard people on deck earlier, he freaked out and said it was probably his clients. I’m guessing that he lied. Please don’t tell me he’s the captain, because I swear I could really use the chief mate position and I don’t think I can work for someone whose mouth was on my—”