1. Emma

CHAPTER 1

EMMA

I glance at my phone as the private jet rolls quietly to a complete stop.

Right on time.

That'll make Brock… happy… for lack of a better word. Well, as happy as he gets.

If you had told me six months ago I'd be flying to Miami on the Donovan family jet, I would've told you to pull the other one.

But then again, I never expected to score a job as the personal assistant to the wealthiest commercial real estate CEO in Deepwood Mountain.

I don't ever join him on any of his business trips. My role as Office Coordinator and Administrator means I exclusively work at his home office.

But this isn't a business trip.

My heart races with a mix of anticipation and nerves. For once in life, my mind is all over the place. I've planned everything I possibly could, but I still don't feel prepared.

I mean, I've never been on a cruise—much less one to the Caribbean.

Honestly, I've only even been outside Montana a few times—for Spring Break on my sophomore year, and a couple of family vacations with my parents when I was a kid.

But then again, this isn't a real vacation either.

Because I'll be stuck with my grump of a boss.

Who loathes me.

Yeah, don't ask. I have no idea why he hates me. I like to think I go above and beyond for every task and try to anticipate his every need. Since starting this job in December of last year, I've made it my mission to be the best personal assistant I can be.

But no matter what I do, I still only get a grunt in response—or, if I'm lucky, a couple of curt words.

Hooray.

His father told me that he hired me specifically so that Brock would have more time to spend with his family. But Brock seems to work even more these days, despite me organizing his life so that he doesn't have to. I'm the one that ends up sending his regrets to his mother that he can't make this event or that, and then the poor woman invites me to come along instead! They truly are a lovely bunch of people. I don't know why the man insists on wasting his life chained to a computer with ear buds stuffed in his ears.

Brock sits rigidly in the seat facing me in the back of the limo that met us on the tarmac.

Just another perk of being ludicrously rich—planeside pick-up.

His steel gray eyes are glued to the screen of his phone, barely acknowledging my presence. Dressed in business casual attire—tailored chinos and a crisp button-down shirt with a tie that says "meetings" rather than "lounging by the pool"—he looks every bit the intense, no-nonsense boss that…well, that he is. His expression is as unreadable as ever, seemingly oblivious to the world around him.

Then why does he have to be so gorgeous, darn it?

It's just not fair .

Tanned. Chiseled jawline. Black, effortlessly styled hair with that sexy graying temple thing going on, bringing out his eyes. The man is a certified dreamboat. Not to mention, when he's not working, he's clearly working out —maintaining those lean, firm muscles. The product of years of discipline learned from his time in the military.

Which he doesn't talk about.

I mean, he'd actually have to talk first for that to happen.

"We'll be boarding the ship soon, Brock," I say softly, breaking the silence.

"Mmm-hmm," he grunts. He doesn't look up, just keeps typing away with those deft thumbs.

I'd be tempted to roll my eyes except I'm too busy scheming as to how I'm supposed to get that phone away from him. That's why his dad wanted me to accompany Brock on this trip in the first place: to see to it that he takes time off from working.

I really don't know why I agreed to try.

Right now, it seems like a lost cause.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, the soft, pliant leather a stark contrast to the rigid tension radiating off of Brock. He's like a rumbling volcano, ready to explode at any moment.

"Comfortable?" I ask, with a hint of sarcasm, attempting to lighten the mood. I must have a death wish because I know I just poked the bear.

He shoots me a glare that could freeze the Caribbean Sea, his scowl deepening the lines on his handsome face. "No rhetorical questions, thank you," he snaps, his attention right back on his phone, as if it were a lifeline to his sanity.

I bite my tongue. Clearly, he's in no mood for small talk.

But dammit, I can't stand the oppressive silence.

"We'll reach the ship early," I say. "You'll have plenty of time to get a drink and enjoy the view before we set sail."

"Is there a point to this conversation?" His tone is laced with annoyance, as if I'm the one causing his bad mood.

I inwardly sigh. "Sorry, Brock," I reply, resignation creeping into my voice. No point at all. I decide it's best to fall back into my usual role—efficient, effective, and quiet.

As the limo approaches the cruise ship terminal, I can almost feel Brock's tension escalating. His fingers tap impatiently on his phone, and his leg bounces.

I decide to leave him to his own devices, instead turning my attention to the window. I can't help it, I'm counting down the minutes until we arrive, eager to see what this cruise has in store.

"Emma, about the Johnson business complex," Brock begins, his tone already carrying a heavy dose of aggravation. "Did you organize my notes for our meeting this week?"

"Oh, yes, I did," I reply. "But I also informed Mr. Johnson you'd be unavailable this week and that Gabe would be handling the meeting. I gave Gabe a copy of your notes, too. Mr. Johnson was thrilled you'd finally be taking some time off. He said he and his wife took this cruise two years ago and it was fabulous."

I can see a vein on Brock's forehead throb. "You did what ?" He's already tapping on his laptop screen, certainly digging for the Johnson file. "Why?"

"Because Gabe is your COO and can manage your workload while you're away."

He narrows his eyes at me. "Excuse me, when did you become the CEO of Donovan Properties?"

I lift my chin. "I was just trying to help. Your father wants you to step away from work for a while. He thinks you take on more than most humans can handle." I've lost count of how many times I heard Brock say, "I can handle it," in a voice devoid of emotion. It's kinda frightening.

He harrumphs. "My father needs to mind his own business." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "How many of our clients did you tell I'd be unreachable this week, Emma?" He sounds more resigned than angry, but it doesn't stop me from bracing myself for the full force of his reaction.

"Um… all of them."

His gaze, heavy and punishing, locks on mine. " Never do that again."

I swallow hard and nod.

"I will continue to work, Emma," he says, glancing out the window to see the flurry of activity outside. "This trip changes nothing."

We're collected from the limo and escorted through security and straight onto the ship. I, of course, handle all the interactions with the staff. He's still looking at his phone .

When we enter the gangway I smell the change in the air. It's fresh with the scent of saltwater, so unlike the pine and earth of Deepwood Mountain. I can't help taking several deep breaths to enjoy it.

Then I finally lay my eyes on the ship, and my mouth drops open.

The Infinity Voyager is stunning!

Its sleek white hull, adorned with polished chrome, gleams in the late afternoon sun. Towering glass windows reveal the vibrant blue of the ocean. The atrium is a staggering display of opulence and luxury—lush greenery, cascading water features, and an air of sophistication that rivals some of the swankiest hotels I've booked for Brock.

An attractive man in his twenties (so, my age) with dark hair and darker eyes walks up to me and Brock with a welcoming smile. He's wearing a dark blue linen short-sleeved button-down shirt, off white pants and deck shoes.

"Welcome aboard Mr. and Mrs. Donovan, I'm Angel, your personal concierge for your stay."

I choke, and Brock rears back, his eyes darting wildly over to mine. Hey, on the plus side it got his attention away from that stupid phone.

"Oh, we're not married," I say, my cheeks heating. "Or a couple," I add hastily.

Brock furrows his brow.

"Oh… I'm terribly sorry," Angel says, flustered, flipping frantically through the paperwork on his clipboard. "I thought my notes mentioned it. My apologies to you and your father."

Oh god. I wince.

"Wrong again ," Brock chimes in, his voice almost a growl.

"Oh…my…apologies again…"

I thrust my hand out to save the poor guy from even more embarrassment. "I'm Emma Parker, Mr. Donovan's assistant. Lovely to meet you, Angel."

He takes my hand, smiling brightly back. "The pleasure is all mine, miss," he says, then turns to Brock, who is suddenly watching us with an intensity that scares me a little.

"Sir," Angel says, offering his hand.

"Angel," Brock replies, his deep, husky voice sending a shiver cascading down my spine. How does the man manage to do that when his words aren't even directed at me? He shakes Angel's hand and Angel flinches visibly.

"Goodness…pretty strong grip there, Mr. Donovan," he says with a nervous laugh.

"I didn't notice." Brock's eyes never leave poor Angel.

Angel clears his throat. "Your quarters should be ready very shortly. Please feel free to explore the ship or get a drink at any of our bars in the meantime. I highly recommend the Stellar Sky Lounge up on the top deck. It has the best views. Or if you prefer, I can take your order now and bring it to you?"

I open my mouth to answer, but Brock answers first.

"We'll wait in the lounge, thank you," he replies. I'm a little stunned.

"Very good, sir, I'll be in touch," Angel smiles at us both.

"Thank you, Angel," I add, as he nods before turning and leaving.

"You're sure you're okay with the lounge?" I ask Brock, arching a brow.

Brock nods, his expression tight as he gestures for me to walk ahead of him. "Yeah, I need to make some calls."

Crap! I can hear his dad's instructions in my head clear as a bell: no work calls, no emails, no computers! Just relaxation.

"Why don't we take a quick look at the view first?" I ask, glancing up at him.

He hesitates, then actually—shock horror—holds my gaze for longer than a millisecond.

And it's not… anger I see there.

My stomach does a strange backflip straight into a cartwheel. Maybe it's a good thing he doesn't look at me that often, if that's how I'm going to react. Like a girl with her first crush. Yikes.

He pulls at his tie and sighs heavily. "Fine. Let's go."

We step out onto the deck, the cool breeze feathering across my face. We lean against the railing, watching the ocean sparkling in the sunlight, the sound of the waves gently lapping against the hull creating a soothing melody. I take a deep breath soaking in the beauty around us. I could soooo easily get used to this.

The oh-so-familiar ding of a new text message shatters the peaceful atmosphere and Brock pulls out his phone. He glances at the screen, then immediately begins typing a reply.

I watch him, noticing the slight furrow of his brow as he types, the tension in his shoulders. His concentration is intense, almost obsessive . That stress is why his father wanted him to take some time off—and frankly, I agree with him. Sure, his work ethic is admirable. It's one of the main reasons he's so successful—that ability to stay focused and disciplined, traits I both envy and respect. But the man is going to burn himself out and fast if he doesn't let go a little.

Suddenly, I spot a pod of dolphins swimming off in the distance, playfully arcing up out of the water as they speed along.

"Oh my god, Brock!" I exclaim, grabbing his arm. "Look! Dolphins!"

Brock jumps, so startled at my sudden outburst that he bobbles his phone, sending it flying into the air. He reacts quickly, trying to catch it, but it's too far out for him to reach. In slow motion we watch as the device tumbles ever downward, finally disappearing into the water with a small, sad splash.

"Oh—" I blurt, my heart sinking. I'm afraid to turn and look at Brock, who hasn't said a word. "I'm so very sorry. I'll buy you a new one when we get back to Montana, I promise." I don't want to think how expensive replacing his phone is going to be.

I can hear him taking slow, deep breaths, and I finally risk a glance at him.

He stares straight ahead, jaw clenched. "No, that's not necessary, it was an accident. But now I'm stuck without a phone." He growls. "I'll have to rely on my laptop once my luggage is delivered to my cabin."

Well, until he finds out his luggage has unaccountably been shipped…um… elsewhere .

I swear, the phone thing was a complete accident…though an incredibly fortuitous one, in the furtherment of my cause.

The luggage, though…yeah…maybe that was taking this a bit too far. Crap.

I bite my lip, realizing he's glaring at me. The fury in his eyes is undeniable.

What if he fires me?

"I'm starting to regret agreeing to this whole cruise idea," he spits.

I swallow hard, feeling the weight of his disappointment. "Please, Brock, everything will work out. You can still have a great time. Think of it as a sign from the universe to take a bit of a break?"

He rolls his eyes, his face etched with frustration. "Now I really need that drink. Let's go."

As he strides briskly away, I feel a pang of helplessness. I knew he already hates me, but oh man—disappointment is so much worse!

I can't give up. Not yet.

It's an unexpected win on my part, but I'm going to run with it. I'm going to make sure he unplugs and enjoys himself on this damn cruise if it's the last thing I do.

Hopefully, not before he sends me packing.