Page 146 of Dirty Damage

The only cure for the headache brewing behind my eyes right now is the open ocean. I need the wooden deck under my feet and the salt spray on my face.

But, for the first time, I realize that’s not all I need.

42

SUTTON

OLEG:Meet me at the boatyard. I want to get away with you.

We’ve been back from Sardinia for a few weeks, but the vacation haze has lingered. The way we’ve been falling into bed together every night, rarely coming up for air, it’s hard to feel like we’ve come back at all.

Now, he wants to leave again?

OLEG:Plan on staying on the ocean for a couple nights. Pack accordingly.

I want to believe we’re getting close. I want these past weeks to mean something.

Of course, if they did, Oleg would tear up our contract and set it on fire.

He’s been clear about what this “relationship” is: It’sbusiness.

Which is why I send him a picture of the positive ovulation test I took this morning.

SUTTON:This is going to be a work trip for you. Just saying.

I’m softening the blow of my own disappointment, setting boundaries before he can slash through my fantasies.

But my heart still does a flutter when I see him texting back.

OLEG:I’d send you a dick pic to show how ready I am, but that would be crude.

I laugh and jump up to pack a bag. As I stuff a swimsuit and enough lace nighties for him to shred through one at every meal and still have some left over, I can’t stop from wondering if this is what it’s like for Sydney.

When Paul called Sydney up and apologized for sending her away—when he requested Drew bring her to meet him in London—was she giddy?

She sounded giddy. I’ve spoken to her every day on the phone since that call in Sardinia. We tiptoed around the abusive boyfriend of it all until the day she told me Paul was taking her shopping in London.

“He said he’s sorry, Sut. He meant it this time, I could tell.” She was lying to herself and to me, and we both knew it.

But there wasn’t anything I could say.

I’m not like that, though.

Oleg isn’t like that.

This may not be a real relationship, but he isn’t cruel. He doesn’t hurt me. As far as the Palmer women’s luck goes, that’s just about as good as it gets.

The yacht rocks gently under my feet as I walk towards where Oleg stands at the helm.

Salt air whips my hair around my face, carrying with it the briny scent of the harbor. Behind us, the city stretches like a glittering pearl necklace along the coast.

Oleg’s hands grip the wheel too tightly, his knuckles white with tension.

But when he turns to look at me, his golden eyes are dark with hunger.

“Come here,” he growls.

Just like when he asked me to come to Sardinia, when he’s taken me to bed every night the past few weeks, when he texted me an hour ago—I can’t resist.

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