Page 69 of Beautiful Enemy

My friends chatter about the space, but Harrison’s loaded stare locks with mine.

Does he think we’ll room together? Is he planning to seduce me this weekend with the boat and the big gesture?

As conflicted as I am by what I saw yesterday, the idea of him and me, nothing between us but a giant bed to muffle our sounds, makes my body ache.

I’m empty in a way I wish was only physical.

He’s older. Experienced. He’s probably had a ton of sexual partners, and it shouldn’t matter if he has.

But there’s nothing casual about the way I feel. I want him, but not if I’m wondering whether he’s comparing me to someone else he’s sleeping with… or planning to once I leave.

“There’re two jet skis, plus a small fishing boat. A million other toys also,” Ash is saying as we finally head back upstairs.

“How big is this?” Annie asks as the staff bring our drinks.

“Forty-five meters,” Harrison says.

“Ridiculous.”

“It’s just big enough,” comes a voice from behind me.

I turn to see a handsome man step onto the sundeck. His dark hair is swept up by the breeze, his eyes shielded by designer glasses. The only other thing he’s wearing is swim trunks, his shirt hanging from the back, revealing a torso and arms even more toned than the last time I saw him.

“Beck.” The grin that tugs across my face is genuine.

“Good thing you got the big boat. My ego has grown.” He crosses to me and sweeps me up.

“Impossible.” I wheeze around his thick forearms digging into my ribs.

Beck finally sets me down. “Happy birthday, Little Queen. You look good.”

“You look like a Hollywood douche.” My gaze drops to his toned stomach. “Shit. Did you buy an ab roller?”

Beck chuckles, nodding to the waitstaff for a drink. “Yeah right. I have a trainer who makes more an hour than I used to pay in rent.”

I catch Harrison staring.

“Why are we mov—oh!” I suck in a breath as the engines kick in and the yacht pulls away from its mooring.

Beck hands me a towel, and I lay it on one of the lounger-style seats facing my friends. Harrison takes my bag toward the doorway that goes belowdecks.

“Where are you going?” I call.

“Taking your bag to your cabin. Given how protective you are of it, I wouldn’t leave it to the staff.”

I trot over to him. “I need to get something,” I murmur, bending to unzip my bag.

He waits while I open it and riffle through for sunscreen.

A scrap of black lace falls out onto the deck, and he picks up the panties with one finger. “Care to explain?”

My heart stops. I grab the panties out of his hand and stuff them back into the bag. “They’re called underwear.”

“Lace,” he corrects.

“A woman can wear lingerie for herself.”

“But you don’t. You wear T-shirts and cotton knickers.”

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