Page 68 of Changing Tides

“But the master suite was finished, and it was magnificent,” I mutter.

“I bet it was.”

Glancing over to Leia, I lower my voice to a whisper as I go into detail, my voice hitching as I detail being bent overthe dresser and the way Sebastian’s dominant side appeared. Embarrassed by how obedient I was to his demands.

“Wow,” she murmurs.

“I know. It felt like I was coming out of my skin; I was so turned on. More so than I was that night in Hawaii, which I didn’t think was possible.”

“He’s a fucking man now,” she states. “A big, strong, feral male. Just what you need.”

“I don’t need anything,” I reply.

“But you want him.”

“What I want is to enjoy myself without overanalyzing it. To be free of expectation and disappointment for once.”

She grins at me. “My baby girl is growing up. I’m so proud of you,” she praises. “This is my influence, you know.”

She reaches inside the cooler and pulls out a beverage as I ponder her words.

“I know that look,” Amiya says as she pops the top to a beer.

“What look? There is no look,” I insist.

“You’re falling for him,” she declares as she pushes herself up to a seated position. Resting her back against the cooler.

“No, I can’t. I mean, I could, but I can’t,” I tell her.

“Who are you trying to convince?” she asks.

“Both of us.”

“Uh-huh.”

I sit up beside her and tug the amber bottle from her fingertips and take a long pull. Then, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

“It’s easy. Being with him. The conversation and flirting. Even the sex was so easy and fun. Everything with Conrad had been hard. He made everything some sort of test. Was I charming enough at his business dinners? Did my dress and hairstyle look appropriate? Did I appreciate all he gave usenough? Sebastian doesn’t care about any of those things. He’s the opposite of Conrad in every way.”

“Exactly. He’s the anti-douchebag.”

“Really? He lives in swim trunks and sleeps on a sailboat. You think that is anti-douchebag?”

“He’s handsome, unpretentious, and talented. I think that is anti-douchebag,” she says as she takes the beer back, “even if he is currently taunting a bunch of kids because he’s an overgrown child.”

I turn and watch as Anson hits the ball to him, and he spikes it in a teen’s face. Then, they do a victory dance while high-fiving spectators on the side of the net.

“No, he’s not. He’s a man. A real man. One who works in the sun and smells of sweat and salt water when he gets home. One whose touch is rough, like the calluses on his hand, one minute and gentle the next,” I muse.

“Uh-huh,” she says like she caught me.

“Turns out I prefer a workingman’s hand to a soft, well-manicured one,” I quip.

“Well, damn, now, I want me a boat captain,” she mutters.

“Anson’s a boat captain,” I say.

“He’s too laid-back for me. He’s just someone to play with,” she says.

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