Chapter 2: Two White Pills
I held the deadbolt until Flynn stopped asking why the door was locked.
Then I slid it back.
He stood outside with a glass of water in one hand and the little dish of pills in the other. Rain shone on his shoulders. His expression softened when he saw me, and for one dizzy second I hated how easily my body remembered to lean toward him.
“I felt sick,” I said. “I wanted a minute.”
“You could’ve called me.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt dinner.”
His gaze traveled over my face, taking inventory. The hand curled around the door. My damp hairline. The tremor I couldn’t quite stop. He didn’t look like a man who’d just come from dinner. He looked like a man checking whether something had gone according to plan.
“You’re pale,” he said.
“The boat’s moving.”
“It’s barely moving.”
“Then I’m being dramatic.”
A fond smile appeared, polished and familiar. He stepped inside before I could answer and set the water beside the sofa. The pills stayed in his hand.
“Here,” he said. “These always help.”
I kept my eyes on the white ovals. Two, clean and identical. For three nights, I’d swallowed them from his palm while he waited close enough to kiss my forehead afterward.
“I’m not sure I can keep water down.”
“You will. Small sip first.”
He held the glass while I drank. The water tasted faintly metallic. I made myself swallow, then let my head rest against the cushion as if the effort had exhausted me.
“Dinner was good,” he said. “You missed the dessert.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He lowered his voice. “You need to get some sleep.”
I wondered if he could hear my heart striking my ribs. The folded blanket beneath my hand hid the phone, its hard edge pressing into the sofa. I kept my fingers still.
Flynn tipped the dish. The pills clicked softly together.
“Two,” he said. “Like always.”
There was no impatience in his voice. That was the worst part. He sounded like a husband who knew his wife’s routine, who had noticed she was ill and wanted to help.
I took the pills.
“Do you remember what you said at the wedding?” I asked.
His eyebrows lifted. “Which part?”
“When the wind caught my veil.”
He smiled. “You told me you were going to fly away.”
“You said you wouldn’t let me.”
“I meant it.”
I looked at him, trying to find some trace of the man who’d stood beside me beneath a white tent while our families laughed and the sea flashed beyond the lawn. The memory came bright and whole. It hurt more than I’d expected.
I turned the pills in my palm, then tucked my hand beneath the napkin on my lap.
Flynn’s eyes followed the movement.
“Still nauseated?” he asked.
“A little.”
He waited. I lifted the glass again, took another swallow, and let my throat work. His attention stayed on my face.
I pressed the pills into the napkin with my thumb and closed it over them.
“Better?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
The yacht rolled beneath us. I let my shoulder dip with it and shut my eyes. The fear in me wanted to bolt for the door, but my legs felt heavy, and Flynn was watching for any sudden move.
He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek.
“You scared me when you left dinner.”
The tenderness of the gesture made my stomach tighten. “I just needed to lie down.”
“I know.” His thumb paused beside my ear. “You should’ve told me.”
“I didn’t want to make a fuss.”
“You never make a fuss.”
A knock sounded at the suite door.
Flynn’s hand fell away. For an instant, the softness drained from his face. Then he set the dish down and turned toward the passage.
“Stay here,” he said.
The knock came again, quick and measured.
Flynn opened the door. Ellis Rusk stood on the other side in a dark crew jacket, rain beaded along one sleeve. His eyes flicked to me, then back to Flynn.
“Sorry, Mr. Shaw. I need a word.”
“Now?”
Ellis gave the smallest nod.
Flynn’s expression warmed again, but the change was too late for me to miss. He stepped into the doorway, leaving the door open just wide enough for their voices to reach me.
“What is it?” Flynn asked.
Ellis lowered his voice. “There’s a problem.”
Flynn glanced toward me. I let my eyelids droop and leaned my head against the cushion.
“Can it wait?” he asked.
“No.”
A silence followed. Ellis’s hand closed around the edge of the door. Flynn looked at him, and something passed between them—too quick to name, but not the look of a guest asking for help.
“Give me a minute,” Flynn said.
Ellis nodded once and backed into the corridor.
Flynn shut the door. The lock clicked.
“What kind of problem?” I asked.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“I heard him say there was a problem.”
“Crew issue. Storm’s making everyone jumpy.”
He returned to the sofa. I searched his face for the man who’d just spoken to Ellis, but Flynn had put his concern back on like a coat.
“Are you sure you don’t need more water?”
“No.”
He sat beside me. The cushion sank under his weight, nudging the folded blanket closer to my hip. I felt the phone shift beneath it.
My hand moved before I could stop it.
Flynn caught my wrist.
“Easy,” he said.
His grip wasn’t rough. It didn’t need to be.
“I was reaching for my phone.”
“Why?”
“I want to check the time.”
He looked at my hand, then at the blanket. A narrow crease appeared between his brows.
“Your phone’s here?”
“I think so.”
He lifted the blanket.
The hidden phone lay beneath it, dark screen facing up. Flynn stared at it for one still moment, then picked it up.
I reached for the device. He turned his body away, keeping it just out of reach.
May you like
“Flynn.”
“You’re exhausted.” He slipped the phone into his pocket. “I’ll keep it safe while you sleep.”
