Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
They’re not as uneasy. My confidence in this situation helps—the I can handle anything mantra pouring out of me—and they nod me forward.
I exit the cabin and shut the door.
The hall is empty. No Rowin.
New mission: find Farrow and then push Rowin off this yacht.
35
FARROW KEENE
Light rain patters the mega yacht, and an overhang shields half of the main deck from the drizzle. I’m dry, sitting behind the fully stocked bar. Mostly so none of Maximoff’s cousins can see me daze the hell out.
I can’t rid the nauseous scent of rain on metal.
Reaching into the bar’s cabinet, I grab a bottle of Grey Goose. I try to untwist, and I hear ping ping ping.
I stare off into nothingness.
Listening.
And someone rips the bottle out of my hands.
Sensory overload, I’m not going to be able to discern who just stole my vodka. At least not right away.
Seeing as how six protective motherfuckers have been towering above me, I’ll take an educated guess and say it’s someone from SFO.
I blink, and I see Banks Moretti crouching and opening the Grey Goose. Brown hair curled behind his ears, eyes the color of a coffee bean, unshaven jaw—he looks absolutely identical to his twin brother in almost every way.
He’s officially an Omega bodyguard, but I wasn’t there for that security meeting. Obviously I couldn’t be.
And thankfully these guys know that I wasn’t planning on drinking the vodka. Banks does what I was about to do and holds the bottle beneath my nose.
“Smell that, Redford?” Oscar asks me.
I hang my forearms on my bent knees. “Not even a little bit.”
“Shoulda brought the pizza from our boat,” Donnelly says. “Pizza smells better than vodka.” True.
My fingers press into the ground, about to rise to my feet, but I suddenly feel gravel digging into my palms. It’s not real…
There’s no gravel on the boat.
“Hold up, don’t stand,” Akara tells me, an ace at leadership, even when I’m not a part of the team anymore.
Thatcher hands a bottle of water to Banks to give me, and when he does, I unscrew the cap with more focus. I see my surroundings clearly. My other senses are a little out of whack from the intrusive memories.
Maximoff.
I don’t see him. He’s not back yet, but he most likely ran into his siblings inside. Xander has a hard time staying angry at his older brother, so I imagine they’re patching-up their fight.
Akara sets his beer aside. “Is it just the rain?”
“Yeah, it’s been a hotspot.” I comb my hair back and eye the beer bottle. “Don’t stop drinking on my account, Kitsuwon.”
Quinn swigs his beer at that, and Oscar gives his baby brother a look like he shouldn’t be listening to me.
I almost smile, my pulse gradually beginning to even out. And I take a gulp of water.
“Should you go inside the saloon?” Akara asks.
“No, if I avoid it, it’s just going to persist.” This kind of PTSD isn’t new to me, and I’m fairly certain I have the tools to move past this. It’s just a process that takes patience, but the bad timing is frustrating as hell.
Rain on metal. It’s suddenly three times as pungent. “An orange?” I ask vaguely.
“In the galley,” Akara tells Quinn, and Quinn leaves to return quickly with the fruit.
I concentrate on peeling the rind. Citrus overpowers my nose. There we go. My pulse is slowing, and Donnelly starts rehashing a story about how Quinn slipped off the rib.
And I rise to my feet. More at ease, I lean on the sleek bar, and the glass doors slide open in front of us. I set down the partially peeled orange. Donnelly goes quiet, and we all look at who walks on deck.
“Farrow.”
It’s Rowin.
Fucking hell.
My ex glances cautiously at SFO while he closes the saloon doors. “I need to talk to you,” he tells me. This entire yacht trip, he’s been passive aggressive and petulant towards me, but as he approaches me now, he’s neither of those things.
He’s acting cagey as fuck.
“Go ahead.” I wave him onward.
“In private,” Rowin clarifies.
I narrow my gaze. “No. I don’t give a shit if SFO hears.”
But he does. He runs a hand down his tense face, staying about three arm’s lengths away from me. “I just wanted to clear the air with you.”
“You want to clear the air with me?” I repeat like his screw has come loose. “Today of all days?” It’s my boyfriend’s birthday.
“It only just came up.” Rowin glances out at the starry night. Lanterns light up the wet deck.
And the rain has stopped.
I watch him shift his weight. I don’t like this.
Something’s not right. My gut is screaming, and I straighten off the bar.
Rowin jabs a thumb behind his shoulder, pointing at the saloon. “I ran into Maximoff inside. And I misread a few signals. It shouldn’t be a big deal; he said he wasn’t interested.”