Our Secret Summer(50)

I look away and give myself a little shake. This is so strange. Cristiano just had me writhing on his lap. He’s felt every inch of me and now here we are, strolling through the hallway of his yacht as if everything is perfectly normal.

In the bathroom of his stateroom, I lean up against the counter and lift my arm out of the towel for Cristiano when he asks for it. The bandage is already slipping off, so he helps it the rest of the way. He’s gentle about it, not wanting the sticky residue to pull or hurt my skin.

“It’s fine,” I assure him, trying to ignore that pang in my chest as I watch him fuss over me.

Once my small tattoo is exposed, he carefully cleans it with soap and warm water.

“Is it waves?” he asks, studying it with a furrowed brow.

“Yes, it’s meant to be waves concealing an acronym: w-w-w-d.”

He continues frowning as he considers what it could mean.

“What would Winnie do,” I supply quickly, but I don’t give him a moment to pause over it before I launch into a question of my own. “How often do you come out here?”

He tosses the washcloth in the hamper and bends down to root around in a cabinet. “Not as often as I should. Work keeps me busy.”

“Work. Hmm,” I reply, marveling at his luxurious bathroom. “What motivates you to keep going when you already have so much?”

I ask because I need to find some motivation of my own. I’ve been starting to have a hard time reconciling the idea of going back to work at De Vere once the summer is over.

Cristiano gives me a wry smile. “World domination.”

“Oh, really?”

He shrugs and tugs out a plastic bin filled with first aid supplies. “I’d settle for the northern hemisphere…”

I can’t help but laugh. “Be serious. Tell me how you got started. Were you an overnight success?”

He turns to face me, his hip resting against the counter. “No. Definitely not.”

“Is your family in this same business? I’m trying to remember if Lita ever told me about your parents.”

He gets to work opening a Band-Aid. “No. My mom never worked, and my father was in finance for a long time, but not anymore.”

“Did he retire?”

He clears his throat. “Not by choice.”

I frown. “Sorry, I shouldn’t pry.”

He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s steeling himself for this conversation. I wish I hadn’t brought it up, but I can’t help my curiosity; I want to know more about him. Right now he’s so shiny and perfect, a handsome man on a fancy yacht. I don’t buy it, though; no one’s life is that perfect.

He looks down at the Band-Aid. “I grew up similar to you, I’d imagine. A privileged child. Boarding school in Switzerland, college in New York City, graduate school in London.”

So that explains why he only has a subtle Spanish accent. He’s not quite from anywhere.

“I didn’t consider a single expense. Money was no object. And then… the rug was pulled out from under me. By the time I was in my early twenties and ready to start my hospitality group, my father’s company was in ruins. My parents were filing for bankruptcy. My trust fund was dried up, and doors that had been open for me my entire life were suddenly bolted shut.”

“But you clearly didn’t let that stop you,” I hint.

He shrugs. “At the time, I hadn’t ever stepped foot in the real world, had never waited tables or washed dishes. Looking back, I appreciate the fall from grace. Having to start from the ground up gave me an insatiable motivation to succeed. There was no safety net, nowhere to go but up. I managed my first nightclub when I was twenty-three.” He chuckles at the memory. “A fucking idiota with no idea what I was getting myself into, but I pulled through. Here, flatten your arm.” I’d forgotten all about my tattoo. I hold my arm out for him and he places the bandage on my skin, gentle as ever. He smooths it down with his thumb. “It looks good. I would have been worried if you weren’t already a few days out from having it done.”

I don’t care about my tattoo. “Is the club still here? On the island?”

He drops my arm and steps away, crumpling the Band-Aid trash into a ball and arcing it into the garbage can near the vanity like it’s a basketball. “Not anymore. The lease got too expensive. That was before I bought my properties outright. It taught me a lot, though, and I got a taste for success. I took the money from that business and funneled it into the next venture and the next.”

I adjust my towel. “And that hunger for success still motivates you? Work, work, work all day, every day, to keep the sky from falling again?”

He looks at me with a sardonic smile. “You say it like I don’t do anything else outside of work.”

“Do you?”

“I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

“I’m sure it took some rearranging on your part. I doubt you had the morning free.”

“Barely.” He chuckles when I lean closer and prod his chest with my finger. “All right. Some,” he relents. “A meeting or two.”

I smile, then ask, “Are your parents proud of you? I know Dolores would be.”

“Yes. Dolores would be.” He shrugs, looking away to partially conceal his faraway look. “I’m not close with my parents. I can’t say whether they’re proud or not.”