Clearly, it was an awful idea for Quin to add Bellamy to the team, which put him in close contact with Fenway. Two of the richest, most ridiculous, most carefree playboys the universe had to offer. Their lives were full of fun and a complete and utter lack of consequence because they had the money and influence to make any problems go away. With very minimal blowback.
Well, unluckily for them, I was not someone whose anger could be bought off.
They were about to face five-and-a-half-feet of angry female consequence.
The yacht—because Fenway was too mega-rich to be caught dead on something as lowbrow as a boat—swayed again, making my stomach heave, making my tenuous grip on equilibrium loosen further.
Ibuprofen.
I needed ibuprofen. And some ginger lozenges. I would find those in my purse if Bellamy had been smart enough to grab it. I could also use water. But, knowing Fenway, I wouldn’t find any water. Champagne, wine, hard liquor, kombucha? Sure. Water? Not likely.
“All I know is we better be close to some sort of port, so I can get off, and head home,” I grumbled loudly enough that they would hear me if they were a room or two away.
The living space I woke in was on the main deck. Behind it, you could find the dining and kitchen space followed by the game room. Under the stairs and hidden behind a doorway to the side of them, was where you would find the boat captain.
The lower deck was where the guest and staff quarters could be found.
If I knew Bellamy and Fenway, though, they would be on the upper deck. In the blazing sunshine. Which was going to make my head pound even more.
That said, a good, solid punching in the face of a couple of d-bags would do wonders for pain relief.
Making slow, painful progress across the floor, I paused at a cabinet beside the stairs leading up, pulling open the door, and glancing at the mirror attached.
It wasn’t pretty.
My eyes were puffy, my old makeup smeared, my hair limp and getting greasy. There were circles under my eyes because I was overdue for some beauty sleep, damnit.
Just a couple more hours.
“If I finally get back to Navesink Bank, and get a call from Quin about another job before I can unwind at home, you guys are going to suffer,” I rumbled, closing and locking the cabinet, making my way toward the stairs.
The sun streaming in from above seemed unnecessarily bright and cheerful, making a jarring contrast to the dark and grumpy mood I found myself in.
I had a mushroom and onion pizza in my freezer that had been calling my name since before my last job. That, paired with a good, stiff drink and some comfy pjs in front of my TV, seemed like bliss.
Meanwhile, I was in fucking paradise against my will.
Fluffy clouds smattered across the sky.
Brilliant blue water.
Far-off empty islands.
It felt vaguely familiar, but the pounding in my temples was making it impossible to focus, to drag the memory up to the forefront of my mind.
“Could you be any brighter?” I grumbled at the sun as I took a deep breath, flooding my senses with the crisp, unmistakable scent of cool salt water.
There was a slight breeze teasing across the open space, flirting with the ends of my hair, making them dance around my face as I looked at the covered hot tub sitting in front of me.
Turning, I made my way up the port side of the yacht, going toward the seating area I knew I would find at the bow.
Which was where I figured I would find Bellamy or Fenway—or both—unless they were below in the sleeping quarters still.
But seeing as they hadn’t been drugged, and it seemed to be late morning at least, I figured it was more likely that they were awake and waiting for me.
They would be wishing they’d called a helicopter to come and pick them up, or jumped ship and risked it with the sharks, by the time I got done with them.
It was one thing to have one—or both—of them drag me around when I hadn’t been working as hard as I had been lately. But to steal away my one, small window to get time in my own place?
That was unforgivable.
Hell, I might throw them both overboard myself.
I certainly felt pissy enough to do it.
And those two assholes deserved it.
It would be a civic service, really.
There were a lot of women who would pay good money to see me bring them down a few notches. Hell, there was probably a whole club dedicated to it.
Women Scorned By Mega-millionaire Playboys Anonymous.
They likely passed out tissues and anti-depressants at meetings while someone took to the podium to go on an epic rant about their experiences being wined and dined and bedded and promptly dumped.