Chapter One
Secret Twins For The Billionaire Grump
Zoe
Worf was wrong. There’s no such thing as a good day to die.
The ocean is throwing a full-blown tantrum, and I’m the idiot stuck in the middle of it, white-knuckling the wheel as my boat bucks like a pissed-off bronco. Waves slap the hull with a vengeance, spray blasting me from every angle, up my nose, down my jacket, soaking through every damn layer. My jaw aches from the cold, teeth locking together so hard my molars might crack.
One more wave, and I’m done. I know it. The ocean knows it. Hell, even my boat shudders under me, groaning its surrender.
“Come on, you miserable bastard, I’m not clocking out yet!”
The words rip from my throat, defiant but slipping fast. My arms are jelly, exhaustion crawling up my spine. For a fleeting second, doubt creeps in. Maybe this is it. Maybe I actually lose this time.
Then, a fucking miracle, a light.
Not lightning. Not some cruel trick of the storm.
A yacht. A beast of a yacht.
Relief hits, sharp and sudden, and my lungs seize, and I force myself to gasp in salt-thick air. If I can reach that thing, I might actually live to regret all my life choices tomorrow.
The yacht is close, so damn close, but my rust bucket of a research boat is five seconds from giving up the ghost and sinking to its salty grave.
The motor gasps like an asthmatic chain smoker, the wheel jerks wildly, and my legs? Absolute Jell-O, wobbling under me like they’ve already accepted my fate.
“Come on, you piece of shit! a bit farther!”
My voice is raw, half from screaming at the storm and half from desperation. The boat shudders beneath me like it’s weighing its options, deciding whether it still wants to play for Team Survival. The ocean, being the petty bitch that it is, makes the decision for me.
A rogue wave rears up, towering and mean, and I barely have time to suck in a breath before it slams into me with enough force to rattle my spine. I lurch forward, hands white-knuckling the wheel, but it’s like trying to ride a wild bull whose only interest is to lose you.
My soaked gloves slip against the slick metal, useless. My body lurches sideways, shoulder colliding with the console so hard that pain flares white-hot through my arm.
I gasp, blinking saltwater from my eyes. Everything is chaos. Wind howls, waves crash, the sky spits fury, and somewhere beneath it all, my heartbeat hammers against my ribs.
Then… silence. Not the kind that brings peace. No, this is the eerie, gaping-mouthed stillness that comes right before the worst kind of drop.
The radio crackles, sputters… then dies. A slow, dramatic death. The last lifeline I had. Gone.
For a moment, all I see is black. Endless, pitiless dark stretching forever, swallowing me whole. A laugh bubbles up, sharp and brittle. “Scientist lost at sea.” Hell of a headline. Maybe I should’ve just been an accountant.
I blink hard, clearing my vision. The yacht’s still there. My golden ticket out of this soggy nightmare. Another violent surge sends my boat lurching forward, and I slam into the console with a yelp.
“Shit!” My hip throbs, my lungs burn, but the yacht? It’s right there. Almost within reach. My only shot at getting out of this alive.
If I don’t screw this up, I might actually make it through the night.
The engine sputters, coughs, and then flatlines like it’s officially checked out. My boat wobbles, making peace with its watery grave.
“Oh, hell no.” I lunge for the yacht’s railing, ignoring the little voice in my head screaming that this is a terrible idea. The water below churns, eager to make me its next snack. I’ve got one shot, stick the landing, or end up a cautionary footnote.
I jump.
For a second, I’m flying. Then, bam. My hands hit cold metal, legs swinging wildly before smashing into the side of the yacht. I grunt, scrambling for purchase, boots slipping on the slick fiberglass.
Behind me, my boat gives one last, pathetic groan before vanishing into the abyss.
“Shit, Shit, SHIT!” I heave myself onto the deck, flopping onto my back, lungs burning. My chest heaves, each breath scraping raw against my throat. The deck is hard, cold, and solid. Real. Okay, I’m alive. So far, so good.
I shove myself up, dripping water everywhere, and stumble to the nearest door. I pound my fist against it like a woman possessed.
“Hello? Anybody? Help!”
Silence.
Fantastic. This is exactly how horror movies start. Next thing I know, some guy in a mask is gonna show up with a chainsaw.
The door swings open, and warm, dry air rushes out, carrying the scent of polished wood and leather. My body stutters at the contrast, muscles still bracing for battle.
I expect a yacht captain. Maybe an older guy with a grumpy face and zero patience for unexpected visitors.
Nope.
Instead, I get a guy who looks like trouble carved into a six-foot frame.
Tall. Broad. Shirtless.
Yep. Shirtless. Because apparently, the universe decided to play a cruel joke on me tonight.
Spray clings to his skin, tracking over solid muscle like nature itself is admiring the view. His dark eyes scan me, sharp, unreadable, definitely amused.
Great. He’s either trying to figure out if I’m a pirate or just a very wet stowaway.
His gaze lingers a beat too long on the mess that is me, rain-slicked face, dripping hair plastered to my cheeks, torn-up hands… absolute drowned-rat chic.
Perfect. Just how I wanted to reunite with civilization.
“What the hell…” His voice is deep, rough, and the warm timbre of it cuts through the cold still clinging to my bones.
I jab a finger toward the storm. “Boat. Gone. Need help.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t ask questions. Just nods like he rescues half-drowned strangers all the time.
“Get in. You’re shaking.”
Stepping inside feels like slamming into a wall of warmth. Leather, check; wood polish, check; and… bourbon?
Oh please, let it be bourbon!
The shift from storm to luxury is so jarring my brain short-circuits. My boots squelch against the pristine floor like walking sponges.
“Stay here.” He disappears down a hallway and comes back with a towel, tossing it my way like this is some casual Tuesday night rescue mission.
I fumble, catching it. “Thanks,” I croak, voice like sandpaper. I wrap the towel around myself, only to immediately regret it when his eyes drag over me, slow and assessing. Nope. Not the time for a full-body scan, buddy.
Without a word, he hands me a glass of something dark. “Drink.”
The bourbon sears a path down my throat, heat blooming in my chest, spreading to my fingers like an ember catching kindling. I let the glass thunk onto the table, its weight grounding me, my fingers curling around the rim like it’s the only solid thing in this dizzying, surreal moment.
“Okay,” I say, blinking at him. “Is this the part where you tell me I’ve just walked into a Bond movie or an over-funded kidnapping plot? Because I gotta warn you, my ransom value is, like, embarrassingly low.”
His gaze stays locked on me. “No kidnapping. Just keeping you from freezing to death.”
He leans back, arms crossed, studying me like I’m a shipwrecked puzzle piece he needs to figure out. His lips twitch, but his eyes stay sharp, assessing, dissecting.
He looks like he’s cataloging every drip of water rolling off me… every shiver.
The silence between us stretches, heavy with unasked questions. The air is warm, but it does nothing to stop the cold still seeping through my bones. My body wants to relax, to believe the danger is behind me, but my brain isn’t convinced. Not yet.
I shift my weight, feeling the press of soaked fabric against my skin, the squelch of my boots against the pristine floor. The quiet is almost worse than the storm. My ears ring with it, the sudden absence of wind and chaos almost disorienting. There’s no ocean trying to drown me anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’m safe.
Because now, I have him to deal with.
And I’m officially stranded with him.