Page 8 of Stalked By the Yacht Captain

"Forever if I have to," I reply without hesitation.

With one last deep breath and a decisive nod, she walks away, leaving me alone on the deck. The yacht sways gently under me as if understanding my tumultuous emotions—love battling the tidal waves of societal expectations.

As Sandy's figure diminishes towards the pier where her parents wait like two ominous shadows, my resolve firms up like setting sail against gale-force winds. Veronica and James might see me as an unworthy sailor in their daughter's elite world.

But I know different.

I might not be good enough for Sandy, but by some miracle she wants me.

So, I’m going to be there for her.

CHAPTER

FIVE

Sandy

The clink of fine china and the murmur of pretentious conversation surround me, but I might as well be a million miles away.

I'm slouched in my seat aboard the opulent yacht, picking at the lobster bisque that's gone cold in front of me.

My gaze keeps flicking to the deck outside, where the real action is—where Andrew commands the sea with a confidence that makes my pulse race.

"Darling, do pay attention," my mother chides, nudging a smile onto my face like she's trying to smooth out a wrinkle on a silk dress.

"Of course, Mother." But my words are just empty echoes of good breeding. My mind is still with Andrew, the way his rolled-up sleeves expose forearms tanned by the sun, a stark contrast to the cufflinks and tailored suits around this table.

I can't believe they don't recognize him—the rugged, charming captain of this very charter they booked to flaunt their wealth. To them, he's invisible, just part of the crew.

But to me, he's everything they'll never understand.

"Miss Whitmore?" The rich investor—what's his name?—is trying to catch my eye, probably gearing up to boast about some acquisition or another. His attempts to impress are as transparent as the crystal glassware, and just as fragile.

"Call me Sandy," I say, not bothering to look up from my untouched plate. It’s bad enough that my parents have forced me into this setup. I won’t make it easy for him.

"Ah, Sandy..." He trails off, waiting for me to give him something, anything. But I've got nothing for him. No charm, no giggles, no doe-eyed admiration. Just a hollowed-out patience, hanging by a thread.

"Exciting, isn't it? The open sea, the luxury..." His voice fades into the background hum of waves against the hull, the soft clinking of rigging, the distant call of Andrew's authoritative yet warm commands.

"Thrilling," I deadpan, finally lifting my eyes to meet his. He's handsome, I guess, if you're into that cookie-cutter, polished-to-a-sheen sort of way. But he doesn't hold a candle to Andrew's rugged allure, the untamed edge of a man who's battled storms and conquered oceans.

"Your parents tell me you're quite the art connoisseur," he tries again, shifting tactics.

"Art is subjective," I reply, thinking how the wild beauty of the sea under Andrew's watch is the only masterpiece I care to discuss. But this guy wouldn't know a true work of passion if it hit him over the head with a gilded frame.

"Indeed, indeed. And classic yachts? They must stir your soul, being surrounded by such timeless elegance." He gestures vaguely to the interior of the yacht, as if invoking the spirit of sophistication will win me over.

"Stirred is one word for it," I mutter, my thoughts drifting back to the deck, to Andrew. His laughter rings out suddenly from above—rich and genuine—and it slices through the stifled atmosphere, reminding me where I'd rather be.

"Is something amusing?" Investor-guy arches an eyebrow, clearly not used to being ignored.

"Sorry, what?" I offer him a distracted smile. "Just lost in thought."

"Perhaps I could capture your full attention someday," he suggests, leaning in with a confidence I find more irksome than endearing.

"Maybe," I lie, because it's easier than explaining that my attention, my heart, is already spoken for by a man who doesn't need a suit to prove his worth, who wears his strength and charisma as easily as the salt-kissed breeze wears the sea.

"Excellent. Then let's drink to new beginnings," he raises his glass, expecting me to follow suit.

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