Page 15 of The Billionaire's Proposal

When I get back to the small yacht, Mr. Worthington is leaning against a light post on the walkway. He has a large craft-paper shopping bag in one hand and two bottles of wine in the other.

Why does this seem like a date, rather than the end of a filming session?

His hair is styled off his face, and his jaw unlocks as he sees me, and the beginning of a smile sits on his stubbled jaw. His slacks stretch across his groin, and a short-sleeve polo-style shirt does the same to his broad chest.

“You got dolled up for me?” he asks.

“Mr. Worthington, you must be dreaming. I had an appointment with my attorney.” He doesn’t need to know that I had him in mind when I picked this dress and left my jacket in the car. All the banter rackets up the tension. And I admit that seeing him so caring with the other two women, Margie, and Emory, has had an effect on me.

“Please call me Winslow. And what did he suggest was your next step? Other than public humiliation. You’ve already checked that box.” His lips tug to a grin.

“Touché.” I grab a bottle of wine out of his hand as we step onto the boat. “It’s breezy. Do you want to eat underneath or on deck?”

He points to the camera crew. “On deck will be fine. Not much room under there.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. There are two bedrooms, two baths, a small kitchen, and a living area. I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to, but it’s mine.”

He’s speechless so I gesture for him to follow me below. We grab plates, glasses, utensils, and a couple of blankets, and it seems as if we’re alone. The film crew keeps their distance as we head above deck to eat.

Winslow Worthington is delicious with a capital D. He carries himself with an air of confidence, and that wry smile is contagious, so I attempt not to look at him. But as he spreads out the blanket, the corded muscles in his arms have me wishing they were solidly wrapped around me.

He removes the takeout from the bag and opens each top; the spicy aroma sifts through the air. I see it’s from Enzo’s Ristorante—the hottest Italian restaurant in Miami.

We fill our plates in silence and when I take the first bite, I literally moan like I just had the orgasm of my life. Full and throaty.

He laughs. “Incredible, right?”

I slide the next bite of lobster ravioli off my fork, chewing it, and my eyes close. “It’s so light, yet rich. Oh my God, it’s so good.”

“At least I made one good decision,” he mutters. “So, Captain, how did you get into this business?”

“It’s a boring story.”

“Nothing about you is boring.” His tone is deep and soft.

A blush rushes across my face and since the sun is just now setting, he notices. His eyes scan me from head to toe. I stick my fork into the caprese salad as I gather my thoughts.

When his eyes meet mine, I respond, “I grew up on the water. My granddad had a little fishing boat, and there wasn’t a day we weren’t together.”

“Was your dad with you?”

“No, I was raised by my grandparents. My grandma passed away when I was young, so it was always just me and Paps.”

He seems to chew on the little nugget of information before he asks, “Is your Paps still alive?”

I shake my head and sip my wine, which is a high-quality cabernet, not the type of wine you can guzzle. He waits for me to fill in the blanks.

“No.” I’m not spilling the worst of myself with a man I don’t know. “Tell me about you. How did you become a billionaire who feels the need to go after the little people?”

“My legal team won’t be a problem for you if we can come to a compromise.”

He tilts his glass, and the red wine looks like velvet as it skates up to his lips. Damn, these Miami sunsets make everyone look better.

I lift a brow. “I’m listening.”

“What if we shoot a video with my crew, at my expense? It will be top quality instead of being from a cell phone. It can still be ‘What Not to Do’ but will be professional.”

I tap my finger on my lips. “Add in a sixty-second commercial that your company will produce and run all summer on your local station.”

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