ONE
I wasthe crankiest person who’d ever been on a superyacht in the Mediterranean. It was seriously poor form to feel this shitty while on a multimillion-dollar vessel docked in Malta, a party in full swing occurring on all three decks of the boat.
My boyfriend wasn’t there. My father hadn’t bothered to show up to watch the regatta, which I’d lost anyway. And as I stood on the bow of the superyachtThemisand listened to the party happening behind me, I admitted to myself that perhaps sailing wasn’t going to be my forever thing.
While losing the regatta had stung, it hadn’t hurtthatmuch. The truth was, I’d picked it up on a whim—it was something my peers had occasionally participated in and something I thought would interest my father. The sailing today was fun; the weather was perfect for it, and I felt a certain satisfaction with myself over how seamlessly our team worked together.
But we’d still lost. And I didn’t feel the disappointment I’d expected to feel. It was occurring to me that sailing wasn’t something I was passionate about.
The worst part hadn’t actually been the loss itself. I was more upset that the team that came in first included my least favorite person in the world. Alex Boyd wouldn’t even have gotten into sailing if I hadn’t started sailing. All our previous rivalries could have been coincidences, but the coincidences were stacking up.
“Don’t be a sore loser, Nikki.”
I turned to face him, my arms already crossed to protect myself from the slight chill in the air. He stood next to the dessert display, wearing a suit that fit him perfectly, the jacket unbuttoned and his hands in his pockets.
The accusation cut through me, and I sucked in a breath of air. I wasnota sore loser.
But Alex was the worst winner. He was competitive to a fault. This scenario had played out many times before. Alex, a last-minute entry invading whatever event I was participating in, always came to me afterward, wanting to break down the day and point out everything I did wrong.
A few years back, I’d secured a charity entry for the London Marathon to fundraise for a home care cancer society. After months of training and recruiting pledge donations, I had asked Natasha, Alex’s mother, if she would be willing to pledge for me and if I could ask around at her company. She’d smiled and said, of course, and as she was filling out the paperwork, calmly remarked that she hoped I wouldn’t mind if she pledged a little bit less to me than she did to Alex. That was how I found out that Alex had signed up to run as well.
The marathon had stung the worst because it wasn’t about the running for me. It was supposed to be about raising money for charity. And yes, Alex did get more money pledged than me, which was great for the charity. But the questions afterward just made me feel less than.
What training program did you follow? I’ve been taking salt and electrolyte supplements an hour before the start. Did you? How long did you taper for?
I’d wanted to enjoy the fact that I’d finished and raised thousands of pounds for the organization, but Alex wouldn’t stop hounding me.What race are you running next?
I’d known Alex since we were teenagers in secondary school. Sometimes I still looked for the old Alex, the one I first knew who was too tall, too nerdy for our cliquish school. But he grew into his frame, his looks matured, and, while we were still growing into the adults we would be someday, I could see that Alex was going to be devastating.
Would I be giving up sailing because I wasn’t as passionate about it as I should be? Or would I be giving it up because Alex soured it for me?
I didn’t want to tell Alex any of this. “I’m not being a sore loser. Just thinking about Ion.”
Alex’s eyes narrowed, just like I knew they would, at the mention of my boyfriend. We had known each other so long, and he knew exactly how to push my buttons. But I knew how to push his too. Ion was a sore spot of Alex’s, though god knows why.
“Where is Party Boy this evening?” Alex asked.
“He’s not a party boy,” I rebuffed automatically, even though that was exactly why I wished Ion was here. He would have loved this party, and one of the things I enjoyed about him was his ability to make these types of events easier. He was gregarious and attractive, and people loved him.
Except Alex.
“He’s totally a party boy. Come on, his Instagram feed is ninety percent partying and ten percent shots of him naked.”
“It’shis job.” Okay, yes, Ion’s Instagram could have done a better job of furthering his modeling career, but thosehalf-naked photos were his job.
Alex ignored me. “You don’t have anything in common. Case in point, where is he tonight?” He gestured out over the water, the site of the race, the party, the awards ceremony where I didn’t win.
“Sounds like jealousy, Alex,” I taunted. “You don’t know how to relax and have fun. I’m shocked you stepped out of your office long enough to even train for the regatta.”
Alex’s face soured. “I have time to relax,” he insisted.
“You are a workaholic, and you know it. Don’t put down other people just because they don’t have the same drive or ambition that aligns exactly with yours.”
He stepped closer to me. Normally at an event like this, I have high heels on to somewhat make up for our height difference. Here onThemis, though, like most yachts, shoes aren’t allowed. When I made the walk down the dock in my dress fromPegasus, my parents’ yacht, to here, I’d worn thongs that I’d slipped off at the lazarette and added to the line of shoes on the deck. This meant I was quite a few centimeters short of my usual arguing height.
Alex’s lips tipped up in a smug smile. “If I’m such a workaholic who doesn’t have time to train, then how did I win?”
“Maybe if you hadn’t hired my sailing coach out from under me.”
