Page 166 of Dirty Grovel

“That’s Oksana talking, not you.”

“Maybe I agree with her.”

“That would be a mistake.”

“Why?”

“Because you are not Oksana Pavlova,” he growls. “Thank fuck for that. She lives in the past with her ghosts. She lives by the rules. She will always think of what other people think before she thinks about how she feels or what she wants. She’s cold and practical and calculated. She believes in a transactional world where you’re measured by your reputation, your possessions, your status.”

“And me?”

“You…” His gaze softens, a smile playing across his lips. “You believe in fairy tales.”

The vessel waiting for us at the harbor isn’t the usual Pavlov extravagance.

Much like Oleg’s convertible, this beauty’s all vintage class. Small, sleek, and far more intimate, with teak sides that catch the sun like they’re made of pure gold.

Oleg helps me onboard. This is the first time that I’ve felt as though I’m on water. The other yachts are so damn large that they might as well be on dry land for all the bobbing about they do.

“What do you think?” Oleg asks as he takes me through to the bow.

“It’s not your usual ride.”

He chuckles. “It’s been a pet project of mine for many years now. I don’t take her out often, but when I do, she beats yacht sailing every time.”

“Does she have a name?”

Oleg clears his throat, looking out towards the ocean. “The Oriana Elise.”

My heart goes still in my chest.

“Come on,” he says before I can utter another word. “You’re going to learn to sail a real boat today.”

“Me?!”

Laughing, he grabs my hand and tows me towards the cockpit.

The lesson unfolds under clear skies. The doom and gloom of yesterday seems to have passed with only the promise of a storm.

I wonder what that might mean. What kind of omen it could be.

Oleg’s teaching is as confident as the man delivering it. He stands at my back, guiding me every step of the way, his fingers brushing my arm, his breath on the back of my neck, his lips tickling my ear.

It’s so easy to fall for this—the beautiful man showering me with his attention, the dark grain under my fingers, the control I feel as the boat moves like it’s reading my mind.

It’s so easy to fall into awe, to marvel at the whole damn fairy tale of it all.

Once we’ve cleared land and there’s nothing but wild ocean surrounding us, Oleg shows me how to drop anchor.

We go out onto the bow, where the sun is sparkling down on us, illuminating the burnished deck with a rainbow of colors. Oleg lays down the picnic blanket and I pull out the food Jesse prepared.

She’s outdone herself with mince pies, sausage rolls, roast beef sandwiches, and even some duck liver pate with homemade saltine crackers.

But as delicious as everything looks, I’m not hungry. The only appetite I have right now is for the man sitting opposite me, spread out across the blanket, with his arms behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankles.

A gorgeous Adonis of a man who I’m convinced I can’t have.

Lord, give me strength.

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