He glanced at the area she pointed to. “It is. Now, Morgan. About this so-called retirement.”

I held up a hand. “Sorry, Fairchild, but can you point me in the direction of the bathroom? Nature calls.”

I barely listened to his directions before I got the hell out of there, unable to listen to another word about me going back to the sport. The bathroom was down a long hallway, near the bow. Connected to a stateroom, it was glossy and quiet. I ran cold water over my wrists and splashed my face. Bracing myself on the sink, I stared into the mirror, hardly recognizing myself.

Lines of strain bracketed my mouth and crept out from the corners of my eyes. I was thirty-four going on fifty-four, and I was hiding out in a bathroom like a chickenshit.

“Buck the fuck up, Morgan.” Pushing off from the sink, I opened the door and came face-to-face with Parker.

From the compressed line of her lips and the raised schoolmarm brow, I knew I was going to have to talk. I just didn’t know what the hell I was going to say.

* * *

Parker

As soon as Rhys disappeared to use the bathroom, Mr. Fairchild lost all interest in me. A red-haired woman with impressive breasts was clearly far more intriguing. He walked away toward her without saying a word, demonstrating beyond a doubt that I needed Rhys by my side to stay on the jerk’s radar.

It baffled me that a man wearing a white linen suit and purple slippers with gold embroidered initials held the fate of my future in his tiny little billionaire hands.

Rhys, and his not-so tiny hands, was currently off somewhere, freaking out.

He might be more stoic about it than most people, and Fairchild was too self-involved to have noticed, but the subject of Rhys’s retirement appeared to be a sore one. I was worried about his pallor when he strode away. Throwing out polite smiles to anyone who met my gaze, I hurried to follow in my fake boyfriend’s wake.

My concern was disconcerting.

Rhys was a big boy. One who showed up on a Harley to take me to a formal event. Not that I was complaining. I mean, I’d have to research its emission levels, but aesthetically the bike was delicious. It felt sexy. Really pleasantly sexy with my inner thighs pressed against Rhys’s hard thighs and the machine purring beneath me as the wind blew the tantalizing scent of Rhys’s spicy cologne around me.

Yum.

Who knew?

I threw that thought away. I could not have sexy thoughts about a man who would never have those kinds of thoughts about me in return. And I could not be hot for a guy who required a swear jar.

It wasn’t him, I reminded myself. It was the bike! The bike made everything hot.

I really hoped it had low emissions.