“It’s not that,” I insist with a vehement shake of my head. “I just…don’t tend to try new things unless I’m heavily coerced,” I confess.
“Such as?” Damian prompts.
I immediately regret the turn this conversation has taken, and I consider changing the subject, but Damian is looking at meso intently that I suspect he won’t drop this until I give him an answer.
I swallow. “Well, one time when I was in middle school, my aunt said she would cut my hair when the hairdresser who normally did it went out of business. I didn’t want her to—for good reason. That woman might be a nurse, but she shouldnotbe trusted with scissors around anyone. Anyway, we didn’t have a lot of money at the time as it stood, and I didn’t want to go to someone else, so my mom guilted me into letting her do it, assuring me it would come out fine. Long story short, she ended up giving me a hideous bob that made me look like a blonde version of orphan Annie. I refused to come out of my room for three days after that.”
Damian snorts. “That’s understandable. I wouldn’t want an amateur cutting my hair either.”
That should be the end of that, but for some reason, my mouth is moving again, and words are coming out of me so fast I don’t have time to stop them. “And when I was in high school, I left my first party after only five minutes because the music was too loud. I went home and watchedZodiacinstead.”
Why are you telling him this?a furious voice shouts from the back of my head. I don’t respond because I don’t have a good answer.
“I’ve…not seen it,” Damian says, his tone stilted, but I continue as if I didn’t hear him.
“And if we’re talking transport”—I choke out a laugh—“well, I only went on a plane for the first time last semester for spring break, and only because Ronnie made me.”
Dear god, the word vomit won’t stop. It takes biting hard on the inside of my cheek to get me to shut the hell up, after which I can feel my skin flushing a blistering shade of red.
“Oh.” Damian gives me another strange look. “Well…good thing she’ll be there on Saturday then.”
My hand launches upward and latches onto my glasses, jiggling them a little. “Yeah. Good thing,” I agree with a tight-lipped smile, feeling more exhausted than ever.
When Saturday arrives, the sky is clear, and the sun is beaming, promising a beautiful day and perfect boating weather. Meaning there is absolutely zero way to get out of this.
Ronnie tugs me along beside her, our arms intertwining as we amble away from our now departing Uber through the gated entrance to Newport Shipyard, Andie and Eli close at our heels, giggling behind us like lovestruck pre-teens. After checking in at the welcome office, we’re directed to Pier #1—where Damian’s yacht is moored—and told the slip number to look for, which, given my limited boating knowledge, I’m assuming is maritime lingo for “parking space.”
As we walk down the length of the pier, I’m astounded by the size of the boats around me, some of which I’m fairly confident are even bigger than my house. What kind of money does a person need to buy something like this?
The kind that could easily pay out of pocket for chemo,my conscience mocks.
Anxiety prickles my skin as a discomforting feeling takes hold in my chest, the financial berth between me and Damian more apparent than ever. Surely, any moment now, someone is going to realize I don’t belong here—that although I’m wearing nice clothes and may look the part, I’m an impostor. Not like Ronnie, who is in her element like she was born for this life, channeling her inner sugar baby in her designer jeans, tailored blazer, floppy hat, and sunglasses.
She lowers said sunglasses as we approach the end of the dock, her eyes trailing up to take in the massive yacht stationed precisely where the shipyard staff said it would be. I follow her gaze, noting the nameLuciapainted on the stern in elegant, swooping letters.
“Wowza,” she says, letting out a long whistle. Her steps slow to an awestruck standstill, and she shoots me a curious look. “I know you said he’s, like,amazingin bed or whatever, but I mean”—she gestures toward the yacht with a flabbergasted expression—“he’s gotta be compensating forsomething…right?”
I can’t prevent the flash of amusement that crosses my face when Damian pops into view, waving down at us from the top of the boat. “Afraid not.” He might be a smug asshole at times, but if there’s one thing Damian has every right to be cocky about, it’s that.
Ronnie sighs. “Unbelievable. A billionaireandhe has a huge dong? Whose side is the universe even on?”
We’re welcomed on board by an older gentleman who tells us he’s the captain, then guided to the upper deck by what I’m beginning to suspect might be waitstaff. Jeez, I guess it’s true what they say about how the one percent live.
Damian greets us at the top of the stairs, wearing cream-colored chinos and a white linen shirt, which is unbuttoned to reveal his tan, chiseled torso as if we’re in the height of summer and it’s not actually mid-October.
“Welcome aboard!” he announces, brandishing his hands to the sides with all the showmanship of a circus ringmaster. He then approaches me, leans down to give me a peck on the cheek, and murmurs, “Dornan,” by way of greeting before slinging his arm over my shoulders as has become our signature couple’s stance. I silently curse my cheeks when they heat from the contact.
“Ronnie, a pleasure to see you again,” Damian says with a polite nod at my best friend when she clears her throat to get our attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the snarky ghost of a smile twitching at the edges of his lips.
She gives him a thorough, assessing once-over, though I can’t help wondering if she’s actually trying to see through his clothes like a human x-ray machine to determine for herself if I was telling the truth about the generous size of his dick. “Damian. Nice vessel you have here.”
“Thank y—” he starts to say, but Ronnie interrupts him, shoving a hand in his face.
“Is thatchampagne?” she squeals, bouncing up and down on her heels as she grabs and shakes his shoulder with one hand, pointing with the other to a table laden with flute glasses in what appears to be a lavish dining area nestled within a built-in section of the yacht.
“It is. Feel free to help yourself,” Damian answers, but I doubt Ronnie hears him. She’s already halfway to the table by the time he even opens his mouth.
With the spitfire gone, our attention simultaneously shifts to Andie, who approaches us with a wary smile now that Ronnie’s out of the way, her hand tightly clasped in Eli’s. Though she’s definitely the more easy-going of the two cousins, she’s no less protective of me, and I can see her sizing Damian up before he’s even met her gaze.
