Page 21 of The Rebel

‘Me too.’ He rests his elbows on the table and leans forward. ‘So what do you think? Is it doable?’

He’s very doable.

I can string this out, make him squirm, but it’s not my style. I’m tired of the push-pull game between us. I haven’t let it affect my work yet because I’m too damn determined to show Alf what I’m capable of. But the sleepless nights will eventually catch up with me; there’s only so much caffeine can do.

So I mimic his pose and inadvertently give him a glimpse of cleavage in the V of my top. His gaze rivets to it like an alarm laser homing in on an intruder. He has it bad. Good to know I’m not the only one.

I wave my hand in front of his face and his gaze instantly snaps up to mine.

‘Don’t make me beg,’ he growls, his deep voice sending a shiver of excitement through me.

‘It could be fun…’

I guffaw as his jaw clenches, like he’s using every ounce of willpower not to vault the table and be on me in a second.

‘What’s it to be, Daisy? You in?’

He rests his forearms on the table, and his pinkie grazes the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist.

I let out a gasp, knowing I don’t have to respond, he has his answer right there.

But I nod anyway. ‘I’m in.’

Chapter Eleven

Hart

Ihate weakness.

I learned a valuable lesson when I entered my first foster home that if you show weakness you’re a goner. Back then I cried because the older kids got ice-cream after dinner and I didn’t. My tears earned me a hard smack on the backs of my legs with a three foot wooden ruler that left bruises, so I never showed any kind of emotion after that other than anger. My deliberate fury served me well, alienating people before they could hurt me.

My sullen silences following my sudden rages meant I kept people at bay. They thought I had some kind of learning difficulty or behavioural issues. Not one person—foster parents, social workers, psychologists, teachers—figured out why I preferred to remain silent when I wasn’t enraged. They labelled me hostile and surly. Nobody took the time to delve into why a young kid could be so antagonistic. It suited me, holding everyone at arm’s length, disappointing them before they could do the same to me. Nobody cared.

Until Pa.

Somehow he took one look at my obstinate expression, and knew. He didn’t tolerate my moodiness and did everything in his power to make me laugh, from screening corny old movies I’d never heard of in his theatre room, to telling the worst jokes on the planet. I eventually thawed after eight long months, toning down my explosive temper, but what he never knew was it wasn’t the jokes or the movies that made me perk up but his constant, unswerving attention.

Not once did he dismiss me as being irrelevant or stupid. Not once did he mock me for not knowing the difference between a fork and a seafood tine. He really looked at me, and to this day I have no idea what he saw in my saturnine, ornery teen self.

The esteem I held him in was proven the day I set foot on this yacht. Because I couldn’t swim, I had a deep-seated fear of water. An older foster kid holding my head underwater in the bath when I’d been eight went some way to explaining my phobia. Pa didn’t push, but with his encouragement I eventually relented and took swimming lessons.

When I finally agreed to go out on his yacht, he treated it as a monumental achievement, ignoring the fact I wouldn’t remove my life jacket or the way I sat rigid in the stern, my knuckles white from clutching onto the railing.

Thankfully, I’ve moved on from that terrifying day, and I’m taking Daisy out on the water today. It’s just the two of us on the yacht and while this is technically a work jaunt, there’ll be plenty of time for play when we anchor later.

I don’t usually woo women, but there’s something indefinable about her that makes me want to impress.

‘I’ve never been on a yacht before,’ she says, reclining in the seat next to me. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘I thought you said the dickhead ex was wealthy?’

She laughs. ‘Casper had a lot of money, but he preferred to see zeros growing in his bank account.’

‘Tight-ass.’

‘Yep.’ She pokes my arm. ‘Please don’t spoil my first sailing trip by mentioning my ex.’

‘Noted.’

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