“You’ll have to show me someday.”
“It would be my pleasure,” he said, knocking on the railing. “But first, let’s see if you survive the day.”
He said it as a joke, but all the humor left me with my next breath, one that made me grimace at the thought of what I was about to be thrown into.
Wayland chuckled. “Just remember to smile, do as they ask, and stay out of the way. Oh, and don’t take anything too personally.” He shrugged, already walking backward toward the stairs. “Remember, these people are so rich they never needed manners.”
He tipped an imaginary hat in my direction, and I hummed a little laugh, shaking my head as I turned back to the shoreline with the pink sky slowly turning blue above it. And though I’d only been awake a couple of hours, I found myself thinking of a nap.
It seemed I would need all the energy I could muster.
The sand-colored buildings that sprawled the Saint-Tropez shoreline looked almost pink as we pulled into the port. Emma informed me that there weren’t many ports the yacht could dock at, and that usually we would anchor a ways out and take one of the two small tenders stored in the lowest deck to shore.
As it was, we pulled up to the dock and I took photos as Joel and the other deckhands rushed about, tying lines and using what looked like giant, oversized yoga bolsters that were bigger than me to keep the yacht from scraping the dock when we fully pulled in.
There was a small group of people waiting on the dock, and when Theo made his appearance on the main deck, they all cheered in unison, hollering out various greetings and jokes as Theo smiled and held his hands out as if to say yes, it is I, your King.
Eric gave me a flat look, one that told me he was about as excited about having guests aboard as Wayland was. I thought I heard him whisper something like good luck as he passed me on his way to help Joel at the front of the boat. And I swallowed, holding tight to my camera as Ace held out his hand and helped each of the guests onboard.
There were three women and two men, and the women rushed forward first, one of them running toward Theo and flinging herself into his arms. He caught her easily and spun her around, kissing her cheek, and I snapped a photo of the moment while ignoring the pinch in my stomach at the sight.
The woman chattered on excitedly as the other two girls slipped into Theo’s arms, close and familiar, sharing kisses and warm greetings. Two of the women looked like they could be twins, with long, thick blonde hair and dazzling white smiles outlined by lips painted pink. The other one had auburn hair that glowed a fiery red in the setting light of the sun. Every single one of them was dressed opulently in form-fitting dresses, oversized hats and sunglasses, high heels and designer handbags.
I guessed the no shoes rule didn’t apply to them.
I continued taking photos from a distance as Theo greeted the men next, who were decidedly quieter and calmer, though they seemed to poke fun at each other as they shook hands. Once everyone was onboard, Theo squeezed the shoulder of the taller of the two men, as if to exert his dominance over the group with just that one gesture.
“Welcome aboard the Philautia,” he said with a wide grin. And right on cue, Ivy and Celeste appeared with trays of champagne, their uniforms pressed and neat, hair pulled back into tight buns.
Our new guests all clapped gleefully, and once everyone had a glass of champagne in hand, they clinked the expensive crystal together in celebration.
Click.
I’d successfully stayed hidden until the moment they each took a sip and I snapped a picture. The sound had heads turning in my direction, and one of the blonde women — the one who had thrown herself into Theo’s arms — arched a perfect eyebrow over her bedazzled Gucci sunglasses. “I didn’t realize we had paparazzi, Theo,” she said in a thick French accent.
I flushed, holding my camera right below my chest. I opened my mouth to assure her I was far from that, but then remembered Wayland’s warning to keep quiet and stay out of the way.
“This is Aspen,” Theo said, crossing the deck until he was standing next to me. He seemed to suck up all the oxygen as his Tom Ford dress shoes tapped their way across the teak. He wore an all-black suit, tailored to perfection, the only pop of color being an icy-blue neck tie that made the steel gray of his eyes glow even more fiercely. His hair was gelled and styled in a Hollywood swoop, and yet a thick patch of stubble still graced his jaw, as if he looked that rich and decadent without trying at all.
I watched the women as they visibly swooned when he passed, saw how the men smiled in admiration as much as they sneered in jealousy. And then, he was beside me, and in a gesture I never could have prepared myself for, his hand met the small of my back.
I inhaled a stiff breath at the contact, at how warm and massive his palm was over the thin fabric of my tank top. He had to have felt it, the way I jolted at the touch, but he held me steady and sure, smiling wide and standing tall and confident at my side.
“Aspen is a travel photographer specializing in lifestyle and street photography,” he said, and I frowned, glancing up at him. He didn’t return my gaze, though, and I had no option but to
