Page 26 of Twisted Debt (The Debt Tales 1)

“You did.”

Okay, I did. But I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. Geez, it reminds me of an awkward moment I had with my mom right before she got sick. She asked me if I liked her new hair dye job. I asked was it done on purpose. Mistake one. She then called it burgundy, and I couldn’t stop correcting her by referring to it as purple, which it clearly was. Mistake two. I was so terrified of making a third mistake, I just stopped talking for the rest of night.

Should I do that now?

You know.

After I apologize.

Sheepishly, I state, “I’m sorry.”

An unexpected grin is suddenly cocked. “You’re not.”

I am, too!

Kind of?

Sorry, I hurt his feelings calling his… “desires” a fetish but not sorry I asked. I need to know boundaries. What is okay to say and what isn’t in such snooty company.

Elias lovingly takes my hand, chuckles to himself once more on a shake of the head, and resumes leading me though the building it is evident I don’t belong in. Side by side, with linked fingers, no one would ever know that this is my first time – or quite possibly after my reaction, my last time – to be here.

No.

We look perfect together.

Cover of Vogue worthy.

He stuns other guests in his light tan pants, expensive watch, and impressive pocket square while I capture envious glances with the way my hair gently sways underneath the traditional piece of headwear that so many other females are also wearing.

Their stares tell me I look like a million bucks, but because of one poorly phrased comment, I feel like absolute shit.

Leaning slightly closer to him, I meekly apologize, “I really didn’t mean to bring up your fetishes.”

He momentarily stops again to meet my gaze.

“Um…preferences. I meant preferences.”

“You didn’t.”

Ugh.

That’s what I want to mean!

Elias merely smirks yet again and resumes our stroll to the pier where posh superyachts are at the ready. Along the coast are personal cabanas set up the most prestigious guests. Prim people sit. Proper people sip.

There’s champagne flowing.

Cigars being lit.

Trays of caviar, tuna tartare, and watermelon with mozzarella on top being offered every three steps we take.

Elias and I settle in our assigned space on a comfortable oblong shaped seat. Light colored curtains bellow in the air, creating a privacy effect, as you can’t see the faces of your neighbors yet still make out their shadows.

I sit up straight, mirroring his poised sitting position, and glance out at the tropical water where there are five superyachts with crews anxiously waiting for everything to begin. After reading the names of each boat to myself to the best of my ability, I bury my fingers in strands of hair near my forearm and give a tentative, “I’m really sorry, Elias.”

“For?”

The fact he didn’t look over while he asked me that causes an ache to appear in my chest. “Using the F word.”

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