Brothers of Paradise Series

I look up to see Henry at the helm, a hand on the steering. With his thick hair swept back by the wind and a pair of sunglasses on, he looks like he belongs on the water.

“Yes!”

I close my eyes and lose myself in the feeling for a bit, of not doing anything. No work, no expectations. I don’t know how long we sail for, in silence, the only sound that of waves and seagulls and the motor.

He steers into a small cove and cuts the engine. We cruise softly to a stop, in the middle of a dark-blue lagoon, the shoreline rocky and tree-covered.

It’s gorgeous.

Henry’s undoing his shirt, button after button revealing skin and taut muscles. “Come on.”

“What?”

“We’re swimming.”

“We can’t swim here.”

“Why not?” He’s tosses his shirt aside. His skin is faintly tan, a smattering of hair on his chest, leading down to a taut stomach with the outline of a six-pack. Somehow, with all his desk-sitting, he finds the time to look like this? He radiates vitality with every limb.

Henry meets my gaze. “Ready?”

I square my shoulders and reach for the hem of my summer dress. I pull it over my head, and while I like my black bikini, nerves still dance in my stomach.

“So,” I repeat, and kick off my shoes. “You go in first.”

Henry’s eyes sweep over my form in one smooth motion. His face is completely impassive, almost pained in its tautness, and then he dives off the edge of the boat and clears the surface in one strong, beautiful line.

I take a deep breath and jump in after him. The water is shockingly cold, far more than I’d imagined, and I push up to the surface as fast as I can.

“Shit! It’s freezing!”

Henry laughs at me, water droplets flying as he shakes hair out of his eyes. “Yes.”

“Is it always this cold?”

“Yes,” he says, completely unapologetic, and swims toward me with strong arms. “We’re right on the Atlantic coast, battered by ocean currents.”

“You knew.”

“Of course I did.” He flips over and floats past me on his back, the picture of serenity, as if the coldness doesn’t bother him. “Are you saying this is too cold for you?”

I splash him.

He straightens and sputters, something flashing in his eyes. “Juvenile again?”

“I guess you bring it out in me. No, don’t you dare-” I’m splashed back, a wave that plasters my hair to my face and brings me sputtering to the surface.

“You’re impossible.”

“You started it.” He’s closer now, long legs kicking beneath the surface. My mouth is salty from the seawater and I flick a tendril of wet hair back.

“It’s not that cold when you get used to it.”

He smiles, wide and true, and nods. “Profound.”

“You seem so relaxed out here, on the water. When did you learn to sail?”

“As soon as I could walk. It’s sort of the official Marchand family pastime.”

“Like building?”

He grimaces and dives. I kick to stay afloat and watch as he glides underneath the surface, only to appear many feet away, finding a rock to stand on. With his hair slicked to his face and his wide shoulders rising up from the water, he looks like he belongs here.

I swim after him.

“Yes,” he says, “although I’m the only one who pursued that.”

“But that was because you liked it. Architecture, I mean. No one could build an opera house like that if they didn’t truly love it.”This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

He looks at me for a long moment. “I did love it. Still do.”

“We’re similar that way.”

“We’re similar in many ways. More than I thought in the beginning.”

I dive below the surface too, icy water closing above my head, and take a few long strokes. When I surface, I’m much closer to him than I thought. Green eyes gaze back at me.

“There’s more space on this rock,” he says. “If you can reach it with your toes, that is.”

I can’t, and he laughs, arms closing around my waist as I nearly dip below the surface in my attempt to reach the rock.

“Just one of the ways in which we’re different. You’re a dwarf.”

“I’m not. And there’s nothing wrong with dwarfs.”

His smile doesn’t falter. “Never said there was, shorty. I have to say, I’m partial to your height.”

My hands find his forearms under the surface, holding on, and they tense like steel bands under my grip. There are little water droplets in his eyelashes.

“I’m on to you, you know.”

“You are?”

“Yes. I’m your date to ensure we get more work done on the project, and I accept that reasoning. But it’s not the only reason.” I tilt my head, regarding him under my lashes. “Am I moral support? Was that the reason yesterday, with your dad?”

“No. I didn’t bring you as my bodyguard, but you did an extraordinary job at it nonetheless. If I ever need one, you’ll be my first call.”

“Really?”