Chapter 1

I've never considered pushing someone overboard until this moment. But since I need every dollar I make; I sink my hands into my pockets to remove any temptation from shoving him into the warm ocean. From what I can see, he's gorgeous, and he's a paying client. If he died on my excursion, they would dispute the two thousand dollars on his credit card.

"Did you hear me when I asked you to take us out farther?"

My skin prickles at the sound of his growly and authoritative tone. At a snail's pace, I rotate my body to face him. "Did you hear me say that this location has produced tuna for six consecutive days?" I ask with a hint of annoyance tainting my tone.

He tightens his jaw like he's about to explode, grabs the bronze alloy rod, and points in my direction. "Do you see any tuna?" He looks at his two friends. "Do you?"

They shake their heads and look like they're going to pee their pants.

"Well, if you would listen, you would catch something." My eyes pinch closed while I inhale a heavy breath. When I open them, we have a sunglass stare off.

It stopped raining an hour ago, shortly after he stepped onboard, yet he wears a raincoat shielding his body and covering his head. I'm surprised he didn't cover up those Italian leather shoes and the Tom Ford sunglasses with brown lenses hiding his eyes. But his mouth is totally kissable—perfectly sized, the color of pale raspberries—not that I'm thinking about it.

"Sir, I'm asking you to be patient. To trust my competence. I wouldn't come to your business and tell you how to run it."

He cuts the distance between us in half as the corners of his lips turn upward. "I doubt that."

Well, he may be right. Gravity tugs at my core. I've never seen someone so stubborn, yet still attractive.

God, why am I always attracted to assholes?

"I've got one," his friend yells.

My first mate, Orlando, holds the rod in place while letting the fish skim through the blue water until the J hook has penetrated the tuna's thick skin. "Don't take it out yet," Orlando explains.

Mr. Worthington, the name signed on the waivers—I guess he doesn't have a first name since he didn't disclose it—lowers his hood and unzips his jacket, revealing a pin-striped button down which is utterly ridiculous to wear on a fishing excursion. On the website, there are clear instructions on what to expect and what to wear. He brought the raincoat, but otherwise looks like he's attending a meeting in downtown Miami.

What I'm not expecting is how the dress shirt stretches over his biceps or how when he rolls up the sleeves, cuff by cuff, reveals the sexiest arms. I gasp, literally. One of his roped forearms is decorated with an ornate tattoo stretching from elbow to wrist.

He scoots in next to his friend and takes over for Orlando, removing the rod.

"Put the rod back in the holder!" I shout.

"I told them, Captain, but they insist on doing it themselves." Orlando shrugs his shoulders.

"Mr. Worthington, with a fish this large, the boat is the best tool." I list the steps I would take to bring the fish in.

"Are you crazy? That's the boat catching a fish, not us." He grimaces as he pulls the rod back.

"Okay, if you want to spend the next thirty minutes or more getting fucked over by a fish, be my guest."

He takes a moment to glance over at me, grazing my bare legs with his eyes. And I can almost hear him saying what or who he would like to get fucked by.

I don't know why I deal with these corporate assholes who wouldn't know a tuna unless it was sliced with pretty edible flowers decorating the plate. Oh yeah, bills.

Grabbing my camera, I film the standoff between my client and the fish. It's going on my website. "What not to do if you want to bring home a big fish," and he can't do anything about it because when he purchased tickets, it states in the fine print, "You agree for Big O Excursions to use photos and videos of your likeness on the company website."

Looking over the side of the boat, I confirm it"s a tuna as he drags the two men around the other side of the boat. The fish is hooked and if they would let me use my boat, I could get that bad boy to the surface in minutes.

With his legs bent and his feet a shade more than a shoulder-width apart, Mr. Worthington invests all his strength into reeling the tuna in, but it's the dress pants pulling taut over his thighs that makes me lick my lips, dreaming of how direct and commanding he may be in bed. I'm certain he's a man who needs control.

I lick my lips, knowing I'd give him a run for his money.

My phone slips from my hand, bouncing across the boat floor. When I pick it up, the screen is cracked. Christ, I need to stop thinking about sex. In my defense, it's hard with this gorgeous specimen of a man standing only feet away.

"Do you boys need my help?" I ask, continuing to film their battle with the fish they are now calling Jim.

"Come on, Jim," they say on repeat.

"If you want to go home with this one, you…"

He cuts me off. "I don't need your help." The other two men take over holding the rod as he approaches me. He runs his fingers through his thick, loose hair.

"Why do you have to be so stubborn?" I say, frustrated because when people catch big fish, they tell the world by posting on social media, and then my business gets flooded with bookings. It's obvious that won't happen today.

His tongue sweeps over the seam of his lips. "It's called patience. Persistence. The feeling of accomplishment." Holy mother of Jesus, his words drape over me as he leans in, hovering over my ear. "Haven't you ever wanted something so bad, you would do anything to get it?"

The innuendo sinks into my skin, and my heartbeat runs wild. When I'm finally able to speak, I say, "Then let me get the tuna to the surface with the boat."

His lips twitch, and I feel his interest blanketing me.

"Nah. The easy way isn't fun. It's the chase."

I swear to God, he winks at me through the dark lenses.

Two hours later, the five of us return without a fish. I dock the boat, while Orlando expertly ties it to the bitt, securing the boat in place.

The disappointment of not catching any fish is evident in the dejected looks on their faces as they gather their belongings. Mr. Worthington snatches his rain jacket from the middle seat and disembarks.

"Thanks for fishing with Big O Excursions." My voice is artificially chipper, before mumbling, "At least I didn't say Told you so."

I imagine his eyes narrowing through the tinted sunglasses as his jaw clenches. His friend shrugs and mouths, "Sorry." They fall behind Mr. Worthington as they make their way up the slatted wooden walkway.

Orlando sneaks up beside me, slapping his arm around my shoulders. "Never seen someone so determined to do it himself."

My head rocks back and forth. "It's a shame. I think it would have been our biggest catch of the year. Maybe tomorrow's clients will let me do my job."

Orlando nods in agreement. "Do you have plans tonight?"

"Yep. Uploading this bad boy video to the website." A slow-rolling chuckle escapes my throat. "In big letters, WHAT NOT TO DO."

While I'm updating my website, I look up Mr. Worthington's booking information; the name seems vaguely familiar, so I ask my friend Google and am shocked at the first photo and caption.

Winslow Worthington. Billionaire Communications Mogul.