“It was a whim,” he said. “I’m not prone to them—I tend to plan out my moves in both my business and my personal life.”
“Do you? What do you have planned for me?”
“A great many things,” he said. “I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
“Oh.” I swallowed, suddenly feeling very warm.
“To be fair, though,” he continued, returning to the topic of the boat, “while this is technically a houseboat since I live on it, most people would call it a yacht.” He shrugged. “I don’t call it, either. She’s His Girl Friday to me.”
I laughed, delighted. “I love it.”
He inclined his head. “I’m glad you approve.”
“But you still haven’t told me why.”
“I suppose the thought of living on a boat played to my fantasies of being a pirate. Of taking off whenever I want. And, of course, it has all the essential compartments for smuggling my ill gotten gains.”
“Well, of course,” I said lightly, even though I was wondering if he meant it. “Who’d bother with a houseboat that wasn’t well-equipped?”
“I knew you’d understand.”
He cocked his head toward the stern. Or maybe it was starboard? I never could keep anything nautical straight in my head. At any rate, I followed him through a wooden door into a stunning salon that resembled a high-end condo’s living room. That opened onto a dining area, and beyond that I assumed there was some sort of cockpit area, but I didn’t see that because Evan led me down a small staircase to the next level that consisted of only one giant stateroom. The realization didn’t sit well with me, primarily because it conjured up thoughts of all the women he’d undoubtedly entertained there—women who didn’t come for platonic visits in which they slept in their own room. I mean, “Come back to my place,” is a time-tested pick up line. But how much better must it be if the line is, “Come back to my boat”?
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “You look pensive.”
“It’s an ugly rumor,” I countered. “I never think unless I can help it.”
He kissed my nose. “Or maybe you think too much.”
I frowned. Because with that, I was in total agreement.
Fortunately, his phone rang, distracting him from figuring out what I’d been thinking about. He glanced at the display, then looked at me. “Sorry. I need to take this. There are bathing suits in the top left drawer. Why don’t you put one on and join me back on deck?”
“Sure,” I said, though inside I was cursing. Apparently, I’d been right. And not only did he bring women here, he brought so many that he provided clothing.
“Hey,” he said as he took the call and left the room. “Talk to me.”
And then he was gone and I was alone in the stateroom with another woman’s bathing suit. Except that when I started to rummage through the drawer, I discovered that they all still had tags. I glanced toward the door, as if he was still there. As if I could somehow conjure him and, in doing so, I would understand all of his mysteries.
Since the drawer was spacious, I took the liberty of taking my clothes out of my bag and putting them inside. I picked an emerald green bikini, changed, and headed back up to the salon. He wasn’t there, and so I continued on toward the deck in search of him.
He was still on the phone when I arrived, standing with his back to me as he faced the expanse of the lake. “Come on, man. You know me better than that, and I’m sure as hell not going to leave you hanging. Yeah, I’m thinking two years across the board. But we need to take care of all this California bullshit now. I know it’s a mess, but it’s going to get messier if the rumors are true and they’re coming our way. Yeah, well, we need to be sure.”
He laughed. “You’re such an ass. Okay, fine. Hit me with the rest of it.”
I heard his low whistle. “Neely’s a prick, but you’re right. This could develop into a problem. Cole’s good, but—yeah, I know. It’s not the kind of thing I should joke about. Let me plot out some options, and get back to you on this. As for all the other—what? No. You know damn well, the more volatile, the sooner I want out. Shit yeah, I’m becoming risk averse in my old age. As soon as you get close to thirty, your whole perspective changes.”
He chuckled, then said a soft, “Fuck you, and don’t give me grief. We’ve already talked about my reasons. I can’t risk fucking things up for her.”
I frowned, feeling like a voyeur even as I tried to make sense of the one-sided conversation. I don’t think he realized I’d come on deck, and I sure as hell didn’t know who “her” was. The word seemed to hang above his head, pulsing red in some giant cartoon bubble. I didn’t want to be jealous—this thing between us was, by definition, a temporary arrangement. But while my head might know that, the rest of me was turning a jealous green as verdant as my suit.