Wilder

“Well, then this is your room.”

“No way,” I protested, looking up at the chandelier. Seriously? A freaking chandelier? “Is every tutor in a suite? Even with a ship that caters to rich kids, I have a hard time thinking the program is this hard up for tutors.”

He stood and smiled. “Nope, just you. Why don’t you pick out a bedroom? Or check out the balcony? I’ll give Mrs. Trenton a buzz if it makes you feel better.”

“That would be awesome, thanks.” I opted for the balcony. The afternoon was winding down—the air still heavy with sultry heat as I opened the heavy glass door and stepped onto the polished wooden surface. Miami in August was hot as hell, and wearing jeans wasn’t helping. I pulled my thick hair into a messy topknot to get it off my neck and moved toward the smooth railing, testing my limits. After all, that’s what this trip was for, right? But my chest constricted with every step, and as the water came into view stories below, the roaring that filled my ears sounded too similar to a California canyon wind and not enough like the Miami breeze. Not now. God, not now. I heeded my body’s warning, backing away from the nauseating height. Guess you’re not quite ready. But I had nine months on this ship, and maybe if I tried a little each day, by the end I could do it. Until then…well, I’d hang back here.

It was a gorgeous space with a fleet of cushioned lounge chairs and an unencumbered view down to the right—starboard—side of the ship.

Another student leaned against the railing about twenty feet away, his very tanned, toned, tattooed body on display in nothing but a pair of dark blue Hawaiian print board shorts that hung low on his hips.

I openly ogled the cut lines of his muscles, from his worship-worthy washboard abs to the way his biceps flexed, tattoos rippling as he pushed off the railing and sighed, running his hands over his midnight-black hair and lacing his fingers behind his neck.

He was hot. And not passingly hot, but more like I-can-make-you-come-with-a-look hot. Hell, I was halfway there, and he hadn’t so much as glanced in my direction.

What the hell is wrong with you?

I shook my head and tore my eyes away. What was the point of looking, wanting, when he was so far out of my league that we were playing different sports? And besides, what kind of sport gave a guy a body like that? Where every muscle had a purpose?

My gaze drifted back to the stranger, appreciating the strong angles of his face that I could make out from here, the tattoos that moved with his skin.

Not for you. Yeah, obviously, but one more second of gawking wasn’t going to hurt me. Hell, at least it reminded me that my sex drive still worked…and was currently in overdrive, apparently.

He looked pensive, like he carried some impossible, Atlas-worthy weight on his shoulders, and while part of me wondered what someone like him could possibly have to worry about, the other part instinctively wanted to soothe him.

Then he caught me staring.

I ignored my flight reflex and forced myself to hold his gaze across the distance. He cocked his head to the side, like he was trying to decide if he knew me, and smiled softly.

Yep. The old sex drive is definitely working again.

Damn it, he wasn’t just hot, he was beautiful.

The door opened behind him and a goddess with long blond hair and longer legs floated onto the deck. He turned to her, his entire presence morphing into one word: cocky.

“You ready?” she asked. Even her voice was gorgeous.

I turned away from the obvious couple and was saved by Hugo opening the door. “Miss Baxter?”

“Leah,” I corrected him.

“Leah, Mrs. Trenton is here.” He held the door open, and I walked through, mentally kissing all this opulence—including the hot stranger—good-bye.

A middle-aged blond woman in a pencil skirt leaned over a folder of paperwork at my dining room table. The table, not yours. Don’t get used to this.

“Miss Baxter.” She greeted me with a smile and an outstretched hand, which I shook. “I understand that you don’t like your room?”

My cheeks heated instantly. “No, it’s gorgeous. I love it, but I’m supposed to be in an inside cabin on the crew deck. Is there another Leah Baxter?”

“No, this wasn’t a mistake. The student you’re tutoring asked that you be put here so he could have easier access to you as his schedule is quite demanding.”

“Who would do that?”

“Paxton Wilder,” she replied, her smile still firmly affixed to her face.

“Miss Baxter, which bedroom did you want?” Hugo called from the entry hall, my luggage in hand.

“None!” I called out. Easier access? Did this guy think I was going to be at his beck and call? Hopefully not, because I was no one’s beck-and-call girl.

“Nonsense, give her the bigger one since her roommate won’t be joining her until November.”

“Absolutely not. This is Rachel’s dream and she would deserve the bigger one.”

“Perfect. Give her the blue room with the bigger balcony,” Mrs. Trenton answered.

Crap. Did I inadvertently accept the room? “I can’t afford this,” I said quietly.

“Well, I’ll look into that with the bursar’s office. Now, here’s your ID. It doubles as your room key as well as access to all your VIP privileges such as early disembarkation for field-study days, so don’t lose it. Hopefully the lanyard helps in that department.”

VIP? Unless that stood for very impoverished person, there was no way. She handed me the card and, yep, there it was—Eleanor Baxter, VIP. It said so right next to the cringe-worthy picture I’d taken in the cruise terminal. Fabulous, my normally tame brown hair was pretty much the before picture on an intervention makeover show.