Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 96712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“Nothing. It’s all good. I just have an idea.”
His eyes widen. “That doesn’t reassure me any.”
I wrap my arm around his neck and bring him in close. My lips find the side of his head. “If you’re super nice, I’ll tell you later.”
When I get up and walk away, he’s smiling at me. That’s better than being pissed.
Damon follows me into the spare room and closes the door behind us for privacy.
“You okay?” Damon asks.
“Yeah, but I want something.”
“Uh-oh.”
I slump. “I may not act like it, but my brain works … sometimes. So, this is our only thing on the schedule while we’re on this cruise, right? No other commitments other than to get to know each other?”
“Right.”
“Matt’s never going to relax when he knows if he steps off that ship, the cameras will be there, and when he’s onboard, people are snapping photos of him with their cellphones.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I have a private plane. I’m taking Matt back to New York tonight. The paparazzi think he’s away for four more days. That’s four days where he can be a normal human.”
Damon shakes his head. “Boat security. They’ll know if you guys leave the boat and don’t get back on. All they need is one person to talk.”
“Can we give you guys our keycards? Tell the ship crew that Maddox O’Shay and Damon King are leaving the cruise early and then use our room instead of yours. All we have to do is somehow sneak away from the ship without the photographers following.”
He rubs his cheek. “If it’s what Matt wants to do, we’ll make it work.”
“Trust me. He’ll jump at the chance to have separate beds.”
Damon cocks his eyebrow. “I feel like there’s a story there, but I’m not sure I want to know it.”
“You’re probably right about that.”
He gives me a nod. “Call your jet.”
Chapter Seven
Matt
“That was more exhausting than a day of sled drills,” I say when we get back to the cabin.
“Yeah, I don’t know what they are,” Noah says, “but I feel way too much like a stripper with all this oily shit on me.”
I can’t help laughing, because he’s right. My skin is gritty, slippery, and smells like coconut. I reckon it’ll take industrial strength soap to get it off. “I would make a joke about being lubed up, but you’ll probably take it as an opening.”
Noah does a double take. “First of all, I can’t believe you’d say lube and opening in the same sentence and expect me not to react, and second, I think I like joking Matt.”
I try to hide my smile. I don’t know what changed during that interview, but with the way he intercepted questions and answered how we wanted him to last night while we were practicing, part of the wall I built when I met Noah to keep our professional distance crumbled, and I’m beginning to see him in a new light.
His arrogant act isn’t who he really is. He uses his wiseass attitude to piss people off and get what he wants, but underneath all that, he’s not so selfish.
He sat there today and made sure I stayed calm. Well, when he wasn’t rubbing against me and getting me hard, anyway. But even that worked as a distraction from the frustrating situation. He didn’t need to do that. It’s his job to make this look real, not coddle me.
I go to say thank you for what he did today, but he cuts me off.
“I’m gonna grab a shower while you pack,” he says. He turns on his heel and heads toward the bathroom, and I can’t drag my eyes away from his ass—the ass that looked amazing in his tiny Speedo.
The voice that should be telling me to quit checking him out is drowned out by his words repeating in my head.
“Wait. Pack?” I ask.
Noah’s smile, blinding and cocky, sends warmth to my gut, and when the words “I got permission from Damon to take you back to New York early” fall out his mouth, I want to swallow concrete to keep my feet planted to the spot. Otherwise, I run the serious risk of crossing the room and kissing the fuck out of him.
“You … what?”
He has to say it again or I might not believe it. “You’re welcome.”
“Why? I mean, why did you do that?”
Noah shrugs. “Well, shit, if you want to stay and endure more of being trapped in this room and trying to ignore the assholes with cellphones taking photos of you on the ship like they did at the cigar bar last night, by all means, we can stay.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I want to go. I just … I—”
His grin widens. “You suck at saying thank you. Just so you know. But hey, if you can’t find the words, I can think of other ways you can thank me.”