Page 75 of Beautiful Enemy

Anger rises up, along with panic. Maybe I sabotaged this night on purpose, let myself be confused by the big gesture. But I want him. I want this. Tonight.

I shift up onto my knees, grabbing his bare forearms before he can leave.

“No,” I protest, knowing in my bleary brain that I’ll regret this. “Don’t pretend you didn’t rent me a boat—”

“Charter.”

“—not to fuck me on it. There’s no other possible reason a man like you would do this for a woman like me.”

My mouth snaps shut.

It’s quiet here. No soft lapping of the ocean against the boat. No hum of equipment.

The words hang between us like a gauntlet.

Harrison’s gaze lowers to my shoulder, where my bra strap is exposed. “I won’t pretend to know what you think a man like me does. But as for a woman like you? There are no women like you. At least as far as I’ve seen. You arrive at a place with an exit strategy. You look out for people you don’t even know, and you demand that others do the same even though God forbid someone look out for you in return. You put yourself on the line every night on that stage, but when you look in the mirror, you don’t recognize the girl looking back. It should be too painful to watch, but I can’t look away. You are an exquisite train wreck. So, if there’s a way a man like me is supposed to treat a woman like you, forgive me. I’ve never met a woman like you.”

Before I can react, the door shuts in my face.

I stare at the ceiling and try to sleep for an hour before stumbling to the bathroom to throw up, brush my teeth, and drink a gallon of water.

Then I stare at the ceiling some more.

We’re so damn different. He’s older, experienced, at the height of his career while mine is still growing. He’s comfortable in his skin while I’m learning how to wear mine. He’s a billionaire with a vendetta and enough baggage to sink this yacht, and me…

I have baggage too.

Despite it all, I want him.

The alcohol burns off before my insomnia, so I pull out my computer and headphones and grab a light blanket, carrying all three up the stairs as quietly as I can.

Above deck, night hangs like an indigo blanket. Distant sounds from shore and the soft swish of waves are the only interruption to the silence. In one of the loungers, I open my computer and put on my headphones, opening Ableton Live.

I’m a few minutes into working on a track when movement by the stairs has me stiffening.

An intruder.

Yachts don’t have intruders.

Unless there are pirates?

But I recognize the way this pirate moves.

He grips the railing, grimacing.

“Are you sick?” I demand, sitting straight up. “How much did you drink?”

Harrison spins, looking caught out. “Not enough.”

I’m barely buzzed now, and my brain is functioning far better since I rid myself of most of the alcohol earlier. “You’re seasick. So, why are we on a yacht?”

“Because you wanted it! And I wanted to give it to you.”

Oh.

Oh, no.

This larger-than-life, rich, untouchable prick. He wasn’t supposed to get me a birthday yacht. Or the cake I like. Or host my friends. Still, he did it all knowing full well he couldn’t relax and enjoy himself. That makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the slight swaying of the boat.

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