Page 3 of Voyage with the Reclusive Billionaire

I do, however, know that I’ve been sitting at the bar for the past thirty minutes and there’s still fifteen more to go before Eliza should be here.

The way she looked at me, the cool tone she used when she spoke, was intoxicating. Easy to get addicted to for someone like me. Yes, it was clear she had no idea who I am. How that’s possible anymore, I don’t know. After everything that happened in the past few years, I didn’t think there was a person alive who knew how to look at me without even the slightest bit of fear guarding their expressions. I especially didn’t think it was possible for someone to say no to me. Even for something as simple as an offer to walk them to their room.

She’d been smart to say no. Not that I planned to do anything to her—that I would ever touch a single hair on her or any woman’s head without consent—but I probably would have found myself unable to keep from stopping by. Even just to be rejected by her.

Something in the air shifts. A charge that feels just as familiar as it does new. Then I smell her perfume and that strange, almost herbal scent that hides beneath it, that is hers and hers alone. She pulls out the chair beside me and sits down. “You’re early,” she comments, her voice stronger than it had been before.

I fight the urge to look over at her and instead assess the bar around me. Themed after the ocean, of course, but with a nod to the Greek god of the sea, Poseidon. Cool blues and tinted whites color the walls, and under the soft gold starburst chandeliers, comfy, curved blue chairs are arranged around white cocktail tables. A focal point along the far wall is a statue of Poseidon holding a trident and adorned with large chunks of blue quartz crystals. "So are you,” I reply.

“I was hoping to down a few drinks before you got here.”

“Well,” I say, finally casting her a glance as I give her the barest of smiles, “Then you’re late.”

She levels me with a flat look. “Ha.” Eliza examines the bar in front of us before sliding my untouched drink toward herself and taking a sip, wincing slightly.

“Is my drink not to your taste?”

“It’s disgusting, actually, thanks for asking. And anyway, I figured the least you could do is buy me one, considering I wouldn’t even be here right now if you hadn’t begged on your knees for me to come.”

“I don’t recall begging. Or being on my knees.” I’m fighting a true smile now, unable to help but respond to her personal brand of humor.

“Really?” She asks, then shrugs. “I recall both.”

“Maybe you did hit your head after all,” I grin. She just just gives me another look, and we have an awkward moment of silence. “I would have bought you a drink, you know. Whatever you wanted.”

“Not too late for that.” Her fingertips trace the rim of the glass. “Something with more sugar than alcohol.”

“Fruity?” I ask.

Another shrug from her. “I don’t know. I’m not much of a drinker.”

I take in the information, file away the questions that arise at that—like why is she starting now? when she’s already going to be on a rocking boat in the middle of the ocean—and instead call the bartender over, order her something with a low alcohol content to keep her from getting wasted in case she’s a lightweight, and steal my drink back from her. I take a sip of it slowly, remembering the way her mouth looked pressed against the glass, before setting it back down and licking my lips.

When he brings her drink, she cradles the curved cocktail glass between her hands and asks, “Are you going to start interrogating me yet? To make sure I’m not one nap away from a funeral?”

I watch as she takes a careful sip, decides she likes it, and takes a slightly longer one. Then I say, “I figured maybe we could just have a conversation.”

“For the love of—are you kidding? Please tell me this wasn’t an elaborate ruse for you to get me to go on some sort of one-sided date with you.”

My brows furrow. “Of course not. I just figured if you could hold a conversation without slurring or getting confused or passing out, I could consider you non-concussed.”

She eyes me up and down suspiciously, but nods. “Okay, fine. Let’s… converse.”

“What an organic way to start.”

“Fine,” she barks, glaring at me. “I don’t kn—oh—I don’t know your name.”

I try to keep from wincing. Not exactly what I was hoping for, even if I’m not surprised. If anything, the shock is that it took us this long to circle around to that. But it’s not the kind of thing I’m eager to hand out these days. I don’t want it to suddenly trigger a memory of who I am. Especially not when her company, while aggressive, is not unpleasant.

So I give her my nickname instead. “Corey.”

Eliza takes this in, nodding. “Corey.” It’s like she’s tasting the word. The way she says it is almost intimate, almost curious. Then she gives a single shake of her head. “No. I don’t like it.”

I almost choke. “What?”

“I mean, it’s fine. It just doesn’t suit you.” She takes a nonchalant drink.

“Oh yeah? And what would suit me, Eliza?”

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