Seventeen missed calls.
Eleven from Dane. Three from my mother. One from my father.
I ignore all their names and pull up a number I haven't called in over five months. I know he knows what day it is. I also know that he'll pick up.
"Jessa."
"Chris," I whisper, hating the sob in my throat.
"Jessa," he says again. Softly. It's as though he knows exactly what's happened. But then, how could he?
"You were right about him," I admit. My voice wavers, but it doesn't crack. I won't let it.
He doesn't laud it over me. He doesn't berate me. He doesn't even seem to take pleasure in the fact that he was right. Most touching of all, he doesn't ask me any questions.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't want to be right."
"I know." And the truth is, I really do.
"Come see me," he says.
"I will. I just… need some time first."
"Take all the time you need," he says, the words soaked through with sincerity. "I'll be here."
I hang up and stare at the bright orb of fire in the distance. A thin stretch of storm clouds hangs over its face like a veil.
I should probably be crying, but I can't find the energy. I don't want to waste tears on either of them, anyway. They've stolen enough of my energy for one lifetime.
I don't see the stranger until his shadow looms over me, blocking the rest of the sun. A sin I'm willing to forgive because, for one insane moment, it feels like he's replaced it altogether.
It's not just his impossibly imposing size or his square jaw. It's not even his effortlessly tousled hair or his impossibly gray eyes.
It's the way he's looking at me.
There's no sympathy or pity there. Just mild curiosity, and even that doesn't quite capture it. There's arrogance in his face, the way you'd call a prince arrogant. A kind of certainty and calm that says nothing in this life can touch him.
"Should I keep walking?" he asks. "If you'd prefer to cry in peace, that is." His voice is deep. Chocolatey, velvety, but with an unmistakable rasp at the edges.
I frown. "Probably."
He smirks and pulls out a flask from the inside of his coat. "Here," he says, offering it to me. "This should help."
I don't think twice before accepting the flask and taking a big swig. I probably should have, though. The burning bite of whiskey scorches my throat on the way down.
"Jesus Christ," I gasp.
"It goes down easier the second time."
I meet his eyes for a moment and then raise the flask to my lips again. "Hm," I say, still cringing against the burn. I take a second sip. "You're right."
I hand back the flask. He accepts it without a word.
"You're not dressed for the beach," I point out. He's wearing a crisp button-down shirt with black pants and leather dress shoes. All of it looks ridiculously expensive. But he doesn't seem to mind the fact that his feet are sinking into the sand.
He seems amused by that. "Neither are you."
I laugh. Somehow, I forgot about the wedding dress.
"It's a long story," I say. "Actually, it's not long at all. It's just sad."
"I'm the maker of sad stories."
That catches my attention, but I don't ask what he means. I just push myself clumsily to my feet. Mostly because my neck is hurting from craning to look up at him.
He's even more beautiful up close. The intense way he watches me is more than a little bit unnerving, which is probably why I start babbling.
"I've catered at least a dozen dinners at this stupid fucking club," I say. "Not sure I can stand to come back now."
"Admitting defeat is never the answer."
I raise my eyebrows. "You'd keep catering?"
"I'm the one who hires caterers, not the one who works for them."
"Are you offering me a job?" I joke bitterly.
He cocks his head to the side. "If you want it."
I frown when he blinks. He's not joking. "Excuse me?"
"You see that yacht over there by the far right dock?" he asks. I follow his pointing finger to see the biggest boat by far. It's a glistening hull of purest white, catching the setting sun and the faceted sapphire reflection of the water below.
"The Medusa?"
He nods. "She's mine. And I'm in need of a caterer."
I stare at him in shock. "You're serious?"
"Yes."
His gray eyes are hypnotic. A shiver passes through me, but I'm not sure if I'm hot or cold.
"When?" I manage to croak out. "When are you leaving?"
He smirks. "Right now."
ANTON
"I don't even know your name," she says, looking at me sideways.
Her eyes are an unusual hazel, the light green and caramel brown mixing into a kind of beautiful golden honey.
Sobbing in the sand in a wedding dress is what caught my attention. But her eyes are what held it.
"Tell me yours and I might return the favor."
"Jessa," she tells me. "Jessa Gilmore."
"Jessa," I murmur. She tastes good on my lips. "I am Anton."
If she notices that I've left out my last name, she ignores it and looks out toward TheMedusa. My yacht is sitting pretty at the edge of the dock, ready to set sail.
"That's a nice boat," she remarks.
"Some men would take umbrage at that word."
"Boat?" she asks.
I shake my head. "'Nice.'"
She smiles. Her eyes flash golden, the same shade as her hair.
"Not that you asked," I continue, "but I pay my head chefs seven thousand dollars a night."
Her jaw drops. "I must've misheard you."
"Depends on what you heard."
"Seven thousand dollars for one night?" she bleats. "Is that true or is this just pity?"
"I'm not the pitying kind, Jessa. I pay well, but I expect you to earn it."
"I can cook," she says, her tone growing proud and defensive.
"Excellent. The staff will already be on board," I tell her. "The menu is more or less complete, but according to the ingredients at your disposal, you could change what you like."
She takes that in. "If you have all of that ready, why don't you already have a chef?"
"He canceled at the last moment," I lie seamlessly. "Family emergency, apparently. The sous chef was going to take over, but the girl is not as experienced as I prefer."
"You don't know what kind of experience I have," she points out.
"I have an instinct about these things."
I can tell she wants to question my logic, or lack thereof. But she also doesn't want to talk herself out of the possibility of escape.
She keeps looking back over her shoulder every few minutes like she's expecting to see someone running after her.
"Clock's ticking, Jessa," I say softly. "You need to make up your mind. Coming or going?"
She chews at her bottom lip as she thinks. I take the opportunity to survey her without shame.
The neckline of her gown scoops down, revealing the tops of her generous breasts. The tight bodice tapers at her waist before flaring over her hips. She's sin in white, with ocean foam and soft pearls of sand clinging to the hem. A fucking vision.
Over her shoulder, I notice my brother, Yulian, striding down the dock toward where we're standing on the shore. He raises his eyebrows the moment he sees the woman at my side.
"You're not going to ask me?" Jessa says abruptly.
"Ask you what?"
"About what happened," she says, gesturing to her dress as though she's asking for my opinion.
"Do you want me to?"
"I… I don't know yet."
"Then no, I'm not." I start walking to the boat. After a moment, she follows. Yulian meets us halfway.
"Well, well, well, what have we here?" he asks in a cheesy cartoon villain voice.
Jessa looks between us in confusion before it clicks. We look too much alike to escape the obvious conclusion that we are, in fact, brothers.
"This is Yulian," I tell her. "My right-hand man."
"And brother," Yulian adds.
"The only job he can't be fired from."
Yulian smirks but keeps his eyes on Jessa. "Don't let the grumpy bastard fool you. He loves me."
She smiles nervously, still glancing back and forth between the two of us. I understand her hesitancy—we're not the most approachable duo.
I'm six-four and lean with muscle earned the hard way. Yulian is only two inches shorter, but he still spends hours in the gym to make up for the difference.
"Jessa is the new head chef for tonight," I explain to him.
Yulian gives me an intrigued smile. "New head chef? Well, that's something."
"Is it a problem?" Jessa asks immediately. "Because if it is, I don't need to be here."
"No, no," Yulian says in a hurry. "It's not a problem at all. I'll go and inform the staff now."
Yulian retreats back up the dock and disappears into the yacht. I turn to Jessa and offer her a hand to help her transition from boardwalk to boat. Her fingers tremble when they make contact with mine.
The moment we're onboard, she wrenches her hand back like I've burned her. I ignore it—for now.
"Come with me," I say, taking her below deck. "I'll find you something comfortable to wear for the night."
Her golden eyes scan the yacht, taking stock of everything as we walk. She looks impressed, but there's an air of caution about her, too. She's clearly never accepted an offer like this before.
Hell, I've never made an offer like this before.
I walk her to one of the bedrooms. Inside is a wardrobe filled with spare clothes.
"Jesus, it's even bigger than I thought," she mumbles.
"Even the smallest spaces can be manipulated to look big," I say.
"I'm a little sick of being manipulated today, actually," she replies bitterly.
I let her words hang in the air for a moment as I peruse the options hanging in the wardrobe. "I'm assuming you're talking about the man you were supposed to marry," I say casually, pulling out a simple white dress.
It activates a sense memory the moment I touch it. The cotton between my fingers as I shove her away from me. The feeling of her pulse, warm and frantic, underneath my—
No.I ruthlessly yank myself back to the present.