3. Emma

CHAPTER 3

EMMA

I wake with the sunrise, all my queasiness from the previous evening gone and my mind already buzzing with anticipation for the day ahead.

Yesterday was…strange.

Wonderful, of course! But still strange.

Brock actually engaged with me. Despite losing his phone—and his luggage—he was pleasant. I learned things about him: that he has a yacht. That he knows acupressure.

That he sleeps naked .

Oh boy… My panties are suddenly very wet.

I can't help but feel a little softer toward my grumpy boss now. I mean, he did get me back to the room safely when I felt peculiar. And he did make me feel better. His touch was driving me insane, if I'm being honest. I wanted his big hands all over me.

But I'm sure he was only being a gentleman—not to mention hoping I didn't get hurt after drinking because he was worried I might sue him or something. Whatever. I can think of a thousand reasons he might be nice to me that have nothing to do with what my stupid little heart and body want.

I message Angel, explaining the luggage situation and asking him to bring up a selection of casual outfits for Brock to try. I add a request for some strong coffee and a high-protein breakfast to be delivered as well, so Brock will be fueled up for whichever agenda he chooses from the dozens I've created for the day.

I'm going to make sure this man enjoys his vacation to the best of my ability.

I take a moment to compose myself before knocking on Brock's adjoining door. I had texted him earlier to let him know Angel was on his way.

"Come in, Emma," I hear.

I enter to find Brock sitting on the couch in front of the TV, his bare feet propped up on the coffee table, freshly showered and wearing a white fluffy bathrobe. I'd say he looks relaxed, but he's laser focused on the…sigh…business channel.

"Good morning," I say brightly, heading over to perch on the arm of the sofa. I glance at his big feet. Ugh. Why are even his feet sexy?

"Morning." He tips his head to the side. "Feeling better today?"

I blink, stunned that he's asking me how I am, unsure how to respond. He really is a different person when work isn't on the top of his list. I almost turn to make sure there isn't a client standing behind me.

"Yes, I am," I finally say. "Thank you again for your help last night…and, again, I'm sorry?—"

"If you're going to apologize again for the phone and luggage, you can stop right now. It's done. No use beating a dead horse." He puts his feet down and grabs the lapels of the bathrobe. "Besides, I kinda like this robe. Super comfy."

I chuckle. "Well, it certainly looks good on?—"

A knock at the door signals Angel's arrival. I'm glad for the interruption before I say something embarrassing.

I quickly open the door to find Angel standing with three men laden with packages and another with a cart of food.

"Morning, Emma." He nods toward Brock. "Mr. Donovan. Where would you like the clothes?"

"On the bed, please," Brock directs.

"Very good, sir. I'll have John set up breakfast on the dining table."

"Thanks, Angel," I say, and he tosses me a discreet wink before heading to Brock's bedroom.

Once they're gone we pour ourselves some coffee and Brock gestures for me to follow him into the bedroom. My eyes widen.

"Relax, Emma." He chuckles. "I'd like you to help me choose what looks best."

"Oh. Right. Of course," I say, my voice tight.

His bedroom is a mix of sophistication and extravagance, with chandeliers and elegant furniture. But all my attention is on that bed and those soft sheets. The ones that get to wrap around Brock's naked skin, the lucky things.

I shake off my inexplicable feelings of envy directed at bed linens and turn my attention to the vast array of clothing laid out. There's a ton of potential outfits, and I can't wait to see them on Brock.

"What shall I try first?" he asks.

"You want me to choose?"

"What? You have good taste."

I bite my lip and smile. Then I grab a pair of light-colored linen pants and a coral linen shirt. I hand them to him. "How about these to start? With those deck shoes." I point to a pair of chestnut suede slip-ons.

He goes into the walk-in closet to change and I pick up one of the clothing catalogs and start idly flipping through it. A flowing, green-blue sundress catches my eye. It's beautiful, and I can only imagine how it would flutter around me in the ocean breeze.

"That dress would be perfect for you." Brock's deep voice startles me, and I glance up to see him dressed in the outfit I chose, nodding his chin at the catalog.

Yum. The coral sets off his tan skin, the shirt open at the neck to show off that hard-earned muscle. He has one hand in his pocket, and I notice the way the pants sit low on his hips. It makes my core ache. With his damp hair, he looks like he just got changed from a swim on the sea.

"I'll get it for you," he says. Wait, what are we talking about?

Oh! The dress. "Oh…no, Brock," I stumble over my words, surprised by his offer. "I... I can't possibly ask you to buy me that."

"Why not?" he asks, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Consider it a thank you for putting up with my ill-tempered ass all these months."

My heart warms at the gesture, and I feel myself softening even more toward this man. "Well…okay. Thank you," I agree, unable to deny that my stomach is doing triple flips at the prospect of him buying me a dress.

He smiles at me. Smiles! At me ! Wow… It's official. We're in an alternate universe.

He continues to ask for more outfit suggestions. As he tries them on, I find that not only am I enjoying the task of styling him, I think I'm also pretty good at it—even though it's something I never thought I'd do for the man who barely looked in my direction before yesterday.

"The black suit for any formal nights on the ship. And these shorts and that t-shirt, definitely," I say, pointing at a navy shorts and light blue t-shirt combo. "And those sandals will be great for the pool."

He nods. "Speaking of the pool. How about some swim trunks?"

"Try…um…these." I hand him a colorful pair.

He returns in just the swim trunks, and I stifle a gasp. I don't know why I expected him to be wearing a t-shirt. I mean, men swim bare-chested. Duh, Emma.

I'm not prepared for just how cut he really is. Abs for dayyss . Lean pecs, thick biceps, and when he turns around his back shoulders are a mass of contoured muscles. I want to reach out and trace each delt and trap. He fills out those trunks very nicely, too. He definitely doesn't skip glute day at the gym, put it that way.

"Hmm, hang on..." I step closer, adjusting a twisted fold in the waistband, my fingers accidentally brushing his tanned skin in the process. He inhales quickly. "Sorry," I whisper.

"No problem," he replies.

I grin. "You'll be turning a lot of heads in these."

Brock's lips twitch as if he's fighting a smile, and I can't help but blush. I'm enjoying this whatever-it-is between us. Is this really what he's like when he lets his guard down? Because… I like it.

He goes to change out of the swim trunks, and I note down the clothes he's decided to purchase to have Angel put it on Brock's account.

"So what's on the agenda today?" he asks, attacking his breakfast, now wearing the navy shorts and light blue t-shirt combo.

I quickly rattle off a long list of activities that I pulled from the ship's itinerary.

"Pick a bunch that run consecutively over the course of the day. I'll do them all."

"Are you serious?"

"I like to keep busy."

"I understand that, but at the same time, keeping busy isn't always the point of a vacation," I say carefully, wondering if this is what his dad really had in mind.

Brock's eyes hold a determined glint. "It's the point of my vacation. Anything to stop me from thinking."

Ah, there it is. He doesn't need to say what he's trying to avoid thinking about; I can guess, knowing about his time in the service. It's his way of coping, I get that. Still, I wish he could truly let go and embrace his time away from work.

"Okay, then." I hand him the one of the lists. "Have a good time today." I begin gathering up the breakfast dishes to clear away.

"Oh, no. You're not getting off that easily," Brock says, and I turn around to see his brow arched and his gray eyes sparkling. "You're doing all these activities with me. Unless you had other plans."

I grin back at him. "I was going to lounge by the pool and read a book. You know, relax."

He waves me off. "There'll be plenty of time for that in the next few days."

I squint at him. "Is this punishment for losing your luggage and your phone?"

Her arches a thick brow. "You think spending time with your boss is a punishment?" he teases, with a smirk that takes my breath away.

Good lord, we're flirting.

"Oh, okay, I see how it is," he snickers. "That's it, you're definitely coming with me. I'm making it mandatory. Come on, we're off to…" He peers at the activity list. "Venetian mask making." He nudges me forward.

I'm still stunned as I follow my formerly very grumpy boss.

Who is this and what have they done with Brock Donovan?

We make our way to the arts and crafts room, where an Italian couple is hosting the mask-making session. As we sit down at the table laden with colorful feathers, sequins, and an array of small decorative items, Brock frowns.

"This is all a bit...whimsical, don't you think?" he asks, raising an eyebrow as he selects a plain black mask. His large hand hovers uncertainly over the wispy feathers, seemingly unsure where to place them. "I mean, not something you'd see me wearing at a ball."

"I think it's more about the process and exploring your creative side," I say, selecting a silver mask and envisioning a mysterious yet elegant design for myself. "Not necessarily about what you'd wear to a ball."

I help him arrange a symmetrical pattern of gold sequins on his mask, all the while noticing the way the muscles in his forearms move and flex. His strong, capable hands look so big as he works on the delicate task, and I wonder if he feels as out of his element as he looks.

"Not bad for a first attempt," I muse, admiring his finished product. Brock's mask is simple yet effective, a reflection of his understated style.

"Yours is..." He trails off, his eyes raking over my elaborate peacock feather mask with an intensity that makes me swallow hard. "Striking. It brings out your eyes."

Heat creeps up my neck, and I hastily glue on the silk ribbons that will secure the mask to my face. "Thank you. I mean, it's just a silly mask, but..."

"Just a silly mask," he agrees, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. "But it's the process , Emma. I'd say your creative side is quite well explored."

My heart skips a beat at his teasing. This casual, playful side of Brock is a delight to witness.

After our arts and crafts session, it's on to one of the ship's recreation rooms for trivia. Brock, unsurprisingly, is determined to lead our duo, Team DM (for Deepwood Mountain…his choice of name) to victory.

Brock is leaning in, his eyes gleaming.

"So, the capital of Switzerland is...?" The host's question hangs in the air.

Brock slams his hand down on our buzzer. "Bern," he announces, loud and clear.

"Correct!" the host exclaims, and Brock gives me a high-five. I shake my head and laugh at his childlike excitement.

The remainder of the match is a heated back-and-forth battle, with our team sometimes taking the lead only to have it snatched away by another pair of eager contestants. Brock's competitive streak is in full force, and I wonder if this is how he is with his business deals.

When the final question comes around, we glance at each other nervously. We're tied with the other team.

"The first Disney princess was—a) Snow White, b) Cinderella, c) Aurora, or d) Ariel," the host recites. Brock looks at me and shrugs.

I buzz in. "Snow White!" I yell.

"And Team DM is our winner!" The room erupts in applause and good-natured groans, and before I know it I'm throwing my arms around Brock in a hug.

"We did it!" he says, hugging me back and pumping a fist in the air. "Seems you're more than just a pretty face, Emma," he quips, his gaze roaming over my features before he joins me in laughing again at our triumphant win.

Once the rush of our trivia success wears off, we're off to challenge each other in a game of cornhole, which is apparently a favorite of Brock's. Out on the deck, the sun is warm and vibrant, matching the energy of the other guests enjoying the morning.

Brock's eyes light up as he hands me a stack of bean bags. "I hate to say it, but I should warn you, I'm really good at this game."

I feign offense, narrowing my eyes at him. "And who says I'm not?"

"Okay, okay. Let's see what you got. Ladies first," he says magnanimously. As I get ready to throw, I see him take off his t-shirt off to the side.

No fair! I pause to admire him.

"Sorry," he says, stretching his arms over his head. "It's hot out here."

You don't have to tell me.

A woman jogging by turns to look at him and trips over a lounge chair before continuing on her way.

I know, lady. I know.

Heat rises to my cheeks and I start sweating, trying to focus on the bag in my hand rather than on the chiseled planes of his body, now glistening with a light sheen of perspiration. I manage to toss the bag toward the board with a flick of my wrist. It sails through the air in a perfect arc and lands squarely in the hole.

Brock lets out a low whistle. "Not bad at all."

We continue our game, and soon I find myself losing more often than not. I blame Brock: how can I focus when his sinful body is directly in my line of sight?

Fine. I'll let him have bragging rights for now. I'll get my chance for revenge soon.