Page 30 of Ship Happens

MORNING AFTER CALCULATIONS

Iwake to sunlight streaming through the balcony curtains and the distant sound of waves against the hull. For a moment, I lie still, noticing all the sensations—soft sheets, the gentle rock of the ship, and a pleasant soreness in my muscles that brings memories of last night flooding back.

Ethan’s hands on my skin. My name on his lips. Sand beneath my back and stars overhead.

“Oh god,” I groan, pulling a pillow over my face.

I, Harper Bennett, PhD, respected marine biologist and vocal critic of corporate environmental exploitation, had sex on a beach with Ethan Cole. Fantastic, mind-blowing sex that I initiated just as much as he did.

It was supposed to be a professional arrangement. A fake relationship to repair both our public images while I gathered information for my report. Nothing more.

Yet here I am, remembering how he kissed me, how he touched me, how he looked at me like I was the most fascinating woman he’d ever been with.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. I peek out from under the pillow to see Zoe’s name on the screen.

Did you murder the billionaire yet or are you too busy hate-making out with him?

If she only knew.

I ignore the text, not ready to explain to my best friend that I’ve crossed a line I swore I’d never cross—mixing professional with personal. We all know that is a dangerous cocktail.

A soft knock at the balcony door makes me sit bolt upright. Through the sheer curtains, I can make out Ethan’s silhouette on his adjacent balcony, holding a coffee cup.

I consider pretending to be asleep, but I’ve never been one to hide from my mistakes. Even extraordinarily handsome, orgasm-inducing mistakes. No shame.

I pull on a robe, rake a hand through my hopelessly knotty hair, and slide open the glass door.

“Good morning,” Ethan says, his voice infuriatingly casual. He looks unfairly good—freshly showered, dressed in a simple t-shirt and shorts, his hair still slightly damp.

“Is it?” I reply, accepting the coffee he offers. “I’m still deciding.”

His lips twitch with amusement. “How scientific of you to reserve judgment pending further investigation.” He’s mocking me.

“Don’t make jokes. I’m having a personal crisis.”

“About last night?”

I take a fortifying sip of coffee—prepared how I like it, which is disconcerting—and meet his eyes. “Yes, about last night. That was...”

“Amazing? Surprising? Long overdue?” he replies.

“Unprofessional. Complicated, and really poor impulse control.”

His smile dims. “Ah.”

“This was supposed to be straightforward, Ethan. I pretend to date you, I get my report written, we both get what we want.”

“And last night didn’t fit into that equation? Did you not get what you wanted?”

“Of course it didn’t!” I set the coffee cup down. “We’re on opposite sides of an environmental debate. I’ve criticized your company for years.”

“And I’ve given you access to data proving we’re making massive improvements.” He leans against the railing. “Some might say that’s progress.”

“Some might call sleeping with the subject of my investigation a massive conflict of interest.”

His expression turns serious. “Is that what I am to you? Just the subject of an investigation?”

The question catches me off guard. What is Ethan to me now? Antagonist, research subject, fake boyfriend, lover... the categories are blurring dangerously.

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