Page 11 of His Curvy Castaway Obsession - A Man Who Knows What He Wants

Like I’m some sort of hideous monster. That’s how it feels anyway.

Once I see Michael next to what looks like something that suits him way better than me, I hear a cry escape me and I have to run away. I have to get off this damned boat. Yacht. Whatever the fuck it is.

He can keep his money.

Nobody deserves to be treated like this.

A few well-meaning hands try and stop me, and I can hear Michael calling out as well, before he lets Barbie on the rocks have it. She’s off the boat, I can hear that much but that’s just what I want too.

Confused and disoriented, blinded by my tears, I end up back where Michael’s cabin is, thinking it’s the best place to hide on this stupid yacht.

I decide so many things as I try the door, relieved that it opened, the only thing that’s gone my way so far.

I fling myself on the bed, and cry into the pillows. Swearing I’m through being a waitress, through being told what to do by other people but most of all, I’m through being fat.

I hate myself more than ever and I don’t know how, but I vow to show people like slut-drunk trust fund chick out there just how much weight I can lose. I just know I can.

I’ll show them all…

Right after I cry my ocean of tears.

Chapter Eight

Michael

I should’ve seen it coming, but obviously she’s had way more to drink than anyone’s noticed. Or, maybe it’s just her size to alcoholic proof ratio. That much booze in such a tiny frame, it’s gotta end badly.

I just wish I’d gotten to it sooner, got her off the yacht in time.

Dammit!

Hearing anyone trash talking Zoe is enough to make my blood boil, and in as many steps as it takes to get to the offending guest, I feel my heart go out to Zoe. I know which girl I’d rather be grabbing hold of, that’s for sure.

“Alright, that’s enough. You’re way out of line and you’re off the yacht. Right now. Party’s over, c’mon.” I tell her firmly, not laying a finger on her, not until…

And here it comes.

She takes a wide, arcing swing at my face, the glass still in her hand, which I grab and twist behind her back easily.

“That’s just bought you more trouble than you’ll know,” I growl, catching her other arm and pinning her to the wall as two more of the security detail finally appear from the front of the yacht.

“Sorry, Sir…” they mumble, disappointed, like me that they missed seeing what was coming.

“Just get her out of here, the works too. Aggravated assault is a great place to start. Good thing we’re still docked. Once you get back onboard, tell Shawn to shove off, we’re behind schedule.”

“Yes, Sir,” and I watch as the now less than vocal troublemaker is hauled away. There’ll be lots of paperwork and some explaining to do no doubt, but I won’t have anything like that at one of the events I’m in charge of. And I definitely won’t have it around my Zoe.

Zoe!

My only concern is Zoe, and after noticing the guests going back to their own drinks and grazing, as if nothing’s happened, most of them probably just as bombed as the party pooper but at least they aren’t acting out like that. Once I can see nobody else is causing trouble or has a problem with what just went down, I start to pace the yacht looking for Zoe.

Knowing my way around it better than she might, I figure of all of the places she might go if she were upset, but it isn’t until I pass my own cabin that I hear her crying.

I’m sure I locked that…

But I’m glad I didn’t. If she hadn’t come in here, I’d hate to think what could’ve happened if she went off on her own, upset like that.

She jumps a little once she sees me enter the cabin, but she’s more ashamed than anything else.

“What do you want?” she asks me bitterly, not even trying to hide her tears.

I rush to the bed, sitting down next to her putting my arm out, which makes her recoil, leaving me gutted.

I shake my head in disbelief. It feels like my heart’s been ripped out of my chest to see her so upset, not even wanting me.

“Zoe, I’m sorry you had to hear any of that… that girl… she’s off the yacht, she’ll be charged too…”

“Who cares? She’s right, all those rich folk probably think the same thing… what’s a fat pig doing on their boat, in their world… like it’s beneath them to have a regular, ordinary person even breathing the same air that they do…”

I fight the urge to remind her it’s called a yacht again, but I’m more stunned by what she’s saying, what she’s even thinking.

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