“Let’s get you to the doctor,” I tell Julia, but it’s only when a soft tapping lands on the side of my neck that I glance back down. The pad of Julia’s finger is featherlight against my skin, like she can barely muster the energy.
“No doctor. Just get me out.” She breathes the words faintly, but I hear her loud and clear. And as much as I’d like to stick around to kick the guy in the face while he’s down, Julia is losing consciousness against me—something I know she would never willingly do.
So instead of seeking vengeance, I honor her wishes and scoop her limp body up into my arms, turning away from the confrontation.
Her small purple purse, still slung across her body by a dainty gold chain, taps against my leg with each step as I move across the ship. She’s altogether too damn heavy to give me any sense of relief. Instead, I carry her to my room with an overwhelming sense of terror.
All I know is that she asked me to get her out.
So I do.
CHAPTER 5
Julia
Two years ago…
I WAKE WITH A start, my awareness slamming back into me as I shoot up to sitting. It’s almost physical, like getting plugged into an electrical socket and coming back to life in the blink of an eye.
I wipe at my heavy eyelids as I turn my stiff neck to take in my surroundings. It’s bright, full sun. I’m sitting on a bed, surrounded by a room that looks like mine. But isn’t. A red suitcase sits in the corner, with a pair of men’s swim trunks draped over the top.
Swim trunks I do not recognize. I’ve spent a couple of days this week hanging by the pool with a guy named Jesse and his group of friends, but I don’t think I’ve seen any of them wear hot pink trunks.
Alarm courses through me as my heart rate ratchets up and tears spring to my eyes. I came on this cruise with my mom for a fun getaway over Christmas. She’s been single for a long time, and it’s an all-ages cruise so I told her I’d come with her in case all the guys her age sucked. Then we’d turn it into a girls’ week in the Caribbean. Aside from that, my plan was to zone out, read, and catch up on some sleep.
I’ve been working at the local ice cream shop several shifts per week and attending university full-time. But now I’ve finally completed the final semester of my undergrad at Emerald Lake University. My master’s program begins in January, so this was my last chance to rest before the intensity of school kicks back in.
I just wanted to escape the snow, and this seemed like a fun option.
But this is not fun. I don’t know where I am, or how I got here, and I’m freaked out.
Actually, no. I’m beyond freaked out.
I’m twenty-three, and suddenly, all I want is my mom.
Looking down, I realize I’m wearing my bathing suit with a towel wrapped around my body. The sheets are vaguely damp.
My breath comes more quickly, palms slapping the bedding around me in a desperate search for my phone and small crossbody purse. I scramble out from under the sheets, checking over the bedside table where my sunglasses are folded neatly.
Kneeling on a bed, in a stranger’s room, I place one hand over my chest and close my eyes, forcing myself to take a deep breath to replace the frantic, shallow ones.
I was at the pool bar.
With Jesse and his friends.
My mom went on a date.
We planned to meet back in our room.
I saw that sewer rat, Emmett Bush, across the bar.
I thanked my lucky stars I hadn’t run into him earlier.
I had a rum and coke.
It got dark out.
Jesse wanted me to leave with him.
I told Jesse I could stay for one more drink.
And that I’d be leaving alone.
Then…
Nothing.
All I can remember is… blank. Not the fuzzy, underwater blur that comes with too many drinks. There is only dead space.
I rub my hands up my neck, over my face, and through my loose hair. Then I freeze. My hair was in a low, slicked-back bun last night.
Nothing makes sense. All I know is I need to leave.
I crawl to the end of the bed and swing my legs out in front of me before I pause and listen. My gaze shifts to the bathroom, its door ajar with all the lights off.
My head spins as my toes touch the cool tiled floor, but somehow, the chill grounds me in a moment where I feel totally out of control. I push to stand—and that’s when I glance through the glass patio doors and see it.
Or rather him.
Emmett fucking Bush. Outside on the balcony, asleep on the lounger. The sight of him brings me up short. Gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Bare feet sprawled, one hand thrown over his shirtless chiseled torso, the other propped behind mussed, dirty-blond waves.
He’s got a James Dean vibe, but with more bulk to his frame.
His face? Golden but gritty.
His reputation? A total asshole of a manwhore if my brother’s stories are to be believed.
Not that I’ve seen much proof of Emmett being a stand-up guy. The times I’ve crossed paths with him have mostly been when I meet up with Theo at WBRF events. Emmett’s family owns a farm on the outskirts of the same small town where my mom and I live, but he’s not around much. Or we just don’t run in the same circles.
I’ve heard the snide remarks he’s lobbed at Theo after a tough loss. I’ve seen the way he carries himself, like he’s the king of the world. I’ve witnessed the swagger and the panty-melting smirk he pulls out when the moment suits him. And I’ve heard tales of his womanizing and endless string of hookups whispered around town.
Theo has always told me to stay away from him, and it’s a fair warning, rooted in brotherly love. But staring at Emmett now, I can understand why women ignore the caution signs surrounding him. Of course, they’d still have to endure his personality.
And it makes me wonder if that’s what happened to me last night.
I stand there, staring through the glass at the asshole Adonis snoozing on the patio. My eyes narrow on his sleeping form as my glare intensifies. And I must stare hard enough that I wake him because his baby-blue eyes snap open and zero in on me.
For several seconds, we just stare at each other. My fear morphs into fury with each beat that passes. Enough that I find myself storming toward him, yanking open the sliding glass door, and pressing my foot against the end of his lounger. The motion pushes him back and the metal frame clangs threateningly against the glass barrier of his balcony.
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”
Emmett shoots up to sitting, hands held up like he’s under arrest.
My nostrils flare with every agitated breath, and he tilts his head subtly, as though facing a wild animal. “Hey, hey. I’m not playing at anything—”