Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“What the hell?” the man shouted back. It wasn’t Prescott. I could tell right away from the deeper voice and the dark arm hair this wasn’t the prissy blond I’d spent the last few hours plotting to murder.
“Thank fuck,” I said, shooting out of the closet and heaving in a big gulp of fresh air. It was blessedly cool in the dimly lit bedroom, and I was surprised to see the room was clean with all fresh linens on the bed as if I’d never been naked and coming all over the sheets. Had someone been in here cleaning while I was just on the other side of that damned closet door?
“Who are you?” the man demanded.
“Where’s Prescott?”
He blinked at me. My eyes adjusted to the light enough to make out his features. He wasn’t super tall, but he was certainly taller than my shrimpy self. He had wavy, dark hair sprinkled with a little salt at the temples, and his dark brows were furrowed as if confused about why a perfectly good closet would have spit out a semi-sweaty and cum-stained sailor.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
I mustered as much dignity as I could manage. “I’m a guest of the ship’s owner.”
He raised his brows in surprise. “Are you?”
“Yes. And I’m not sure he’d be happy with you sneaking around in his bedroom messing with his clothes.”
The man crossed his arms in front of his broad chest, his mouth turning down in a frown. “Hm. I think he’d be fine with it actually.” He squinted at my chest. “Wait. Are you wearing my shirt?”
Oh shit. Ohhhh shit. Was this guy married to Prescott? Had I just accidentally stowed away in someone’s marriage… closet?
“Um…” I looked around desperately, wondering if I could make a run for it. Were we still close enough to the marina for me to make it on a midnight swim?
The man took a step closer, and I instinctively took one backward. He was giving me distinct predator vibes, and not the sexy kind. More like the pressing charges on a Caribbean island kind. “What’s your name?”
“C-Cal…” I began. I was distracted by his piercing steel-blue eyes. I wondered if I’d find them this attractive when they glared at me across a jury box in court at my trespassing trial. “And yours?”
“Jonathan Worthington.”
Worthington.
My eyes flicked over to the small brass plaque over the stateroom door. The Worthington.
“Oh,” I said weakly, reaching out behind me for the closet door handle. I slid it open slowly, stepped back into the dark space, and slammed the door closed in front of me.
2
Worth
I stared at the closed door in shock.
What the hell had just happened? One minute I’d been reaching into the closet for a clean shirt to replace the one I’d spilled wine on at dinner, and the next minute I was dealing with a stowaway.
A gorgeous stowaway.
A gorgeous, young stowaway. The man had to be twenty years my junior.
His words finally reached my brain. He’d been asking for Prescott, my brother’s fiancé, and if this was what it looked like, poor Lucas was going to be devastated.
I pulled the closet door back open. “Get out here and sit down. There.” I pointed to the upholstered chair at the desk under one of the windows.
Cal winced and scrambled over to the chair, taking a seat so primly I almost wanted to say “Good boy.”
“Explain yourself.”
His clear blue eyes darted nervously around the room, and his dirty-blond hair stuck up everywhere like he’d stuck his finger in a light socket for way too long. He bit his full bottom lip with his top teeth while he considered how to lie to me. This was going to be good.
“I was doing some work for your… husband?”
“Mm. I’ll bet you were,” I murmured. “Hard work, was it?”
He blushed and looked down at his clasped hands in his lap. Were those my pajama pants?
“Ship work,” he said, getting a second wind. He looked up and met my eyes. “I’m here for the chief mate job.”
I barked out a laugh which caused him to jump and nearly tumble off the chair. “Are you? Well, I can tell you haven’t learned how to dress for the job you want considering those are Ralph Lauren pajama pants.”
He sniffed and looked out the window. “The chief mate of the Worthington has standards, and it is bedtime after all.”
I bit back a laugh. “I guess it is. Where exactly are you sleeping considering the existing chief mate is still in the chief mate’s rack?”
Cal flapped a hand. “I’m not picky. I’m happy to sleep on deck if you—”
I suddenly remembered something and snapped my fingers. “‘Who Let the Dogs Out.’”
Cal blinked at me. “I’m… sorry? Is this a trick question? Is the answer Baha Men?”
“That was your phone, wasn’t it?”