Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 98226 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98226 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Still, even though I felt comfortable in my new routine and found friendship within the crew, I longed for the days on my own. The days when Theo didn’t require my services, when I could walk off the yacht, or Joel could take me on the dinghy to shore — those were what I lived for. I lost hours of daylight wandering foreign streets — listening, watching, feeling. I captured life as it happened around me, telling stories that perhaps would never have been shared otherwise.
We slowly made our way down the coast of France, hopping out to islands and then back to shore until we started to creep into Italy. As much as I loved France, I found the Italian culture to be even more tantalizing. They were one-hundred percent, all the time, no matter what they were doing. They worked tirelessly, created elaborate meals that everyone in the family stopped to gather around, loved each other as if it were their life’s only purpose, and drank wine like this would be their last day on Earth. They were passionate friends, lovers, neighbors and hosts. Where most of the people I photographed in France ignored me or made some gesture to let me know they were not amused, the people of Italy were curious. They invited me closer, let me get personal with their work and their families, offered me wine and food, showed me inside their businesses and homes, and offered advice for where to go next.
As for Theo?
He might as well have been in another country.
After that morning in Nice, Theo seemed wrapped up in work. He entertained clients on the yacht most days, and when he wasn’t entertaining, he was tapping away on his laptop by the pool, speaking in hushed commands on the phone in the salon, or reading something on his tablet, his brows furrowed in concentration.
On the rare occasion he wasn’t working, he was trying to relax — I say trying because I could tell just by casting a glance in his direction from time to time that it was out of his wheelhouse to fully let go of work. Even when he stretched out on the top deck to sunbathe, his fingers would twitch, knee bouncing, head tossing from side to side with distant sighs like it was laying there doing nothing that was the real work.
He hadn’t said a word to me, not since that morning he took me to breakfast.
And why would he? This billionaire on his summer vacation in the Mediterranean? I was just a girl with a camera taking a free ride on his yacht. So what, he’d talked to me a few times. So what, he’d taken me to breakfast in France.
He was just being polite.
We’d been on the yacht for two weeks the day we dropped anchor outside of Vernazza, Italy. I went ashore and spent the morning and afternoon photographing the medieval fishing village, capturing the brightly colored houses and the beautiful water lapping at the coast. It was a little more touristy than I preferred, though, and by the time I made my way back to the yacht, I was ready for a quiet night in the cabin with Joel.
When I walked into our room, my camera around my neck and backpack slung over one shoulder, I found Joel halfway under our bed.
Or should I say, inside our bed.
The bottom of it was solid wood, but it had a few doors with knobs that opened up for additional storage. I’d assumed they were locked, since they hadn’t budged when I’d tried to store some of my belongings there. Which was why I was surprised to see Joel halfway inside the biggest storage compartment now.
“What are you doing?”
Joel jumped at my voice, knocking his head on the bed frame and cursing as he shuffled his way out. “Dammit, Aspen!”
I frowned, letting my bag drop on the dresser. “Sorry I startled you.”
He was still grumbling and rubbing his head, but he forced a breath and a smile. “No, no, I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect you so soon.” His eyes flicked to where he’d been under the bed, and he quickly shut the storage door and locked it, dropping the key into his pocket.
“What are you hiding under there?”
“It’s nothing,” he said curtly. “And don’t go looking, either.”
I arched a brow. “A surprise for me?”
He smirked, finally standing and sweeping me into his arms. “Maybe. So no peeking.”
I smiled against his first kiss, and then he stripped my camera strap over my head and set it on the dresser next to my bag. My arms were around his neck in the next instant, our kisses heated and intentional, hands roaming.
I missed him.
What a strange thing, to miss someone I slept next to each night. But though we’d been together the last couple of weeks, we hadn’t spent any quality time just the two of us. Even holding him now, I found myself inhaling his cinnamon scent like I hadn’t smelled it in years, tracing the muscles in his arms like I’d forgotten the shape of them. His brown eyes were warm as they watched me, his smile lazy and sweet.