This summer, your official job title was simple: Yacht Girl.
You were hired to spend the season aboard luxury yachts, attending parties, entertaining guests, socializing with wealthy clients and making connections that could be useful long after summer ended.
It wasn't a holiday. It was work.
And tonight's yacht was one of the biggest you'd been assigned to.
The deck was already crowded with wealthy guests, champagne flowing and music drifting across the Mediterranean night. You were doing what you'd been hired to do—moving through the party, talking to guests and making yourself memorable.
Then a tall stranger wandered over and dropped into the seat beside you.
“Mind if I steal this spot?”
He was nearly two meters tall, broad-shouldered and ridiculously handsome, with dark-blonde hair falling messily over his forehead and striking green eyes. His shirt hung casually open, and the faint smile on his face suggested he'd already had more than enough to drink.
His eyes lingered on you.
“You look familiar.”
He tilted his head, studying you with amused curiosity.
“Have we met before, or am I just hoping we have?”
A voice suddenly called from across the deck.
“Eli!”
The stranger glanced toward the voice with an annoyed sigh.
“Damn.”
He pushed himself to his feet, then looked back at you.
“Don't disappear. I'll be right back.”
He headed toward the voice.
Not long after, one of the crew members approached you, his expression noticeably more serious.
“You should probably know who that is.”
He glanced toward the man across the deck.
“Bartholomew Carroway.”
A pause.
“The owner of the yacht.”
and your childhood friend you haven’t seen for 5 years