Full Steam Ahead (Sea Swept #1) (5 page)

The fact that he formed quotation marks with his fingers when he said
‘just friends’
makes my hackles rise. “We
are
friends. And how are my decisions any of your business?”

Jace holds up his hands. “Whoa,” he says. “All I was going to say was that I know how it feels to be broke.”

Oh.
 

A part of me wants to be angry with him for being so pointed, but another part of me is surprised he noticed. Even Yasmin doesn’t know how much financial hot water my family is in, but Jace, an empty-headed skirt chaser from the wrong side of the tracks, somehow sees the truth?

I can’t let him get any closer.
 

I’m about to snap something awful so he’ll leave me alone when he adds, “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, okay? And I know where we can get free drinks.”

“Really?” He nods, and I hesitate. I’d much rather sit safely in a group where no one can see past my smiling facade, but my empty bank account makes me shrug acceptance and gesture towards the door. “Lead the way.”

In the elevator, Jace presses the button for the Seashell Deck. (Who names these decks anyway?) A tiled dolphin mosaic greets us when the doors slide open, along with a spread of freshly vacuumed blue carpet. A sign in front of us bears arrows pointing toward various ship attractions. Jace glances at it, then heads to the left.

“This way,” he says.

We round a corner and find ourselves in front of a pair of spotless glass doors. A gold-plated sign next to those doors reads:
The
Robert Peacock Gallery
. I blink at the words.
 

“There’s an art gallery on this ship?” I say.
 

“They’re hosting an auction in a few days. We get free wine if we wander around and pretend we’re thinking about bidding on something.” He opens the door, and soft classical music drifts out from the exhibition. “Didn’t you say that you wanted to visit every art museum in the world?”

I meet his gaze, startled. He remembered that? Earlier I’d mentioned the Tate and Pompidou impulsively, wanting to pretend just for a moment that my summer plans included something other than despair. When Jace pointed out how much that kind of travel would cost, however, my pipe dream shredded away as quickly as it came.

Biting my lip, I peek into the gallery, where large-scale paintings beckon. Jace sees more of me than even my friends do. That’s dangerous, and I should be running in the opposite direction, but it has been a while since I’ve set foot in a gallery and we’re standing right here.
And
there’s free alcohol inside.
 

Without another thought, I step inside. A waiter offers us glasses of white wine from a silver tray, so I take one and sip the cool sweet liquid. Around us, paintings and line drawings and even a mosaic or two line the walls, and sculptures dot the carpet, lofted to waist level by white pedestals. The feel of the gallery is scattered rather then coherent, with a wide variety of styles, but I don’t mind.

“It’s not exactly the Pompidou,” says Jace, “but the booze ain’t bad.”
 

I can’t help but smile. We browse for a while, and I’m on my second glass when I pause in front of an abstract expressionist painting that reminds me of a Rothko. It’s gorgeous, and I can’t look away.
 

Stepping closer to the painting, I study the artist’s brush strokes and the juxtaposition of color, from bold gold to a rich violet. I sigh a little, wishing there was some way to find a gallery internship after graduation. But they pay peanuts—the real value is in the prestige, and the contacts you can make—so there’s no way I can even apply. My J. Crew wages are higher, so I’ll have to stick with that. Though even a full time schedule would only start to dig me out of the hole I’m in.
 

My stomach twists. I didn’t want to think about that tonight. I down the rest of my glass while Jace snags a few hors d’oeuvres from a passed tray. He offers me one but I shake my head. I don’t know if I could keep the alcohol
and
a mini quiche down.
 

Jace nods to the expressionist painting. “You like this?”
 

“It’s fantastic,” I reply, biting the inside of my cheek. I wait for him to comment on how easily he could have painted it, but he only tilts his head to one side.

“I’ve seen something like it before,” he says.
 

“You have?”
 

“At the Baxter art museum.” I must give him a strange look because he adds, “What?”
 

“I guess I wouldn’t have pegged you as a guy who goes to a modern art exhibit.” On his own, anyway. Earlier, he’d made it sound like he only went because his little sister wanted to.

“I think we’ve established that you know absolutely nothing about me.”
 

“I didn’t mean—“ I stop when I notice the glint in his eye, teasing me. “Okay, I deserved that. So you like art?”

“I like beautiful things,” Jace says, and the timbre of his voice has changed. He flicks a glance down my body, and I swear I feel it on every inch of bare skin. And some skin that isn’t bared, too. His smile is crooked as he catches my gaze again. “But I wouldn’t say I’m a connoisseur like you, Lady Cantwell.”

“No nicknames,” I say, but my voice comes out soft. Heat pools in my stomach; I try to ignore it, but his eyes are so green, and they draw me in. This close, they sparkle with gold flecks. I could get lost in them if I let myself.

But I won’t. I can’t.
 

Although right now I wouldn’t mind the distraction.
 

“I’ll get us more wine,” Jace says, taking my empty glass. He heads toward the waiter across the room, and I tear my traitorous eyes from his muscled shoulders. Images of him clad only in a towel flash through my mind again, but this time I let them linger. I mean, my boyfriend of eighteen months dumped me, and the rest of my life is a huge, huge mess. Don’t I get a pass for noticing Jace’s abs? Even Hunter couldn’t compete with those.
 

As the wine swims into my stomach and a pleasant lightheadedness drifts over my body, I walk toward a six-foot-wide wavelike sculpture toward the back of the gallery. I peer at its accompanying placard and almost laugh out loud:
Sea Study #15 by Vicki W. Young. Suggested starting price: $4500.
 

Who could afford something like that? Then the thought hits me that
I
could’ve afforded this—and even paid for it in cash—if I had become Mrs. Hunter Fairbanks. I’ve gone shopping with Hunter’s mom, watched her buy diamond earrings and Louboutin heels. Part of me yearns for that life I could have had, with the shiny new cars and ski vacations to Aspen … but honestly? Part of me doesn’t miss how everyone in those circles is always measuring themselves against everyone else. I once watched Hunter’s older sister pitch a fit because one of her friends had snagged a designer dress more exclusive than hers.

It’s simpler now: I can’t afford anything. Which sucks, obviously, but I’ve realized how little
things
matter. If only I could get back my health and rid myself of the stress of having to come up with blackmail money … I’d be happy scraping by in a tiny studio apartment, eating ramen and buying cheap clothes at thrift stores, as long as I got to work around art.

Behind me the gallery’s doors open, and a girl’s laugh floats into the high-ceilinged space. Several of the art-goers glance toward the intrusion, and my stomach drops when I turn around.
 

“Shh, we have to be quiet!” Kelsey whispers loudly. I catch a glimpse of her through a couple sculptures as she pulls Hunter inside the gallery, giggling as he throws an arm around her waist. “They’ll kick us out and then we won’t get any free drinks.”
 

Sounds like Jace wasn’t the only one who heard about the perks of being an art lover, or at least pretending to be. Not wanting them to see me, I slink behind the enormous sculpture and watch surreptitiously as Kelsey says something into Hunter’s ear. He pulls her close, then laughs, and his eyes have a gleam I recognize. My heart twists painfully; I remember when that gleam was only for me.

I also remember how that gleam died when I told him the truth, how he shrugged my hand off his shoulder. Like I was a leper. Turning, I stumble into the next gallery room and head straight for the side exit, but Jace stops me.
 

“Look what I found.” He presents me with a glass of red wine. Then his gaze flicks over my face, and he frowns. “You okay?”
 

In answer, I snatch the glass from his hand take a deep gulp. I know I’ll be sick as a dog later but I don’t care right now.

“Easy there,” Jace says. “Why don’t—“

“Where’s the piano bar?” I interrupt. “Didn’t you say that’s where everyone went?”
 

His eyes search mine, puzzled, but he checks the time on his phone. “They’ve probably headed to the club by now.”
 

“Great. Let’s go.” I suck down the rest of the wine, ditch my glass on a cocktail table, and take Jace by the wrist. The air in the gallery has grown thick, almost suffocating, and I can’t stay in this room for another second.
 

“Georgie—“

“Stop calling me that,” I mutter and flee into the hallway, dragging him behind me. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Chapter 5

Georgia

Thanks to the gallery wine, I’m full-on tipsy when we arrive at Studio Caribe, the club where the majority of the Kappa and Alpha crowd has settled for the night. The club boasts a professional DJ who is, if you believe the signs, highly sought after in Miami. If nothing else, the music is loud and fast, and the pulsing lights let me forget about Hunter and Kelsey for a little while.
 

Jace and I are pulled apart when we join our friends at the bar.
 

“Where’ve you been?” Yasmin shouts into my ear. “I went back up to Hunter’s suite but you weren’t there so I went to your room but no one answered the door.”
 

“I found the art gallery.”

“Of course you did,” Yasmin laughs. She hands me a mixed drink. “Here, take this; I didn’t realize it had rum in it when I ordered.” After a particularly bad rum-filled night last semester, she’s sworn off the liquor. I suck it down as she orders a vodka-cranberry.

“Did you find Austin at the piano bar?” I shout in her ear.

“Yep! He’s joining us here when he gets off shift.” She waggles her dark eyebrows. “I think he’s into me. And he’s got a cute friend … You interested?”

I’m about to shake my head, but then I pause. If Hunter can move on so fast, then I can too. Sure, I’ve never been the girl to make out randomly with guys at parties, and in fact Hunter is only the second person I’ve ever slept with. I just always felt that I should save myself for love. But where did that get me?
 

And with what I’ve done, I don’t think I’ll ever find love again. I don’t know if I deserve it.
 

What I do deserve, I decide woozily, is to feel something other than empty despair, at least for a night. A few hours.
 

“Maybe,” I say.

We down our drinks and shout over the music for a while. Eventually Yasmin pulls me toward the dance floor, and I stagger after her, too buzzed to care that my balance is shot.
 

Weaving through the crowded floor, we find Parker and start dancing. My arms sway to the thumping bass and I close my eyes to lose myself in the song. I’m not sure how much time passes, but when I open my eyes again I see that Parker and Yasmin have paired off—Parker with Dan Friedman and Yasmin with Austin, who has arrived and somehow managed to find her in the pile of people around us. I’m all alone.
 

I stop dancing in the middle of the crowded floor. I should go back to my room. Read my book and change into my pajamas. That’s what sober Georgia would do. What is that name Jace called me? Oh, right. Lady Cantwell. Always proper, always uptight.
 

I’m tired of being that girl. And for once I don’t want to be alone tonight.
 

My eyes search the crowd. The blond guy next to me isn’t bad—especially with my alcohol fog in full force—while the dude across the room sort of looks like a skinny Chris Hemsworth. But once my gaze sweeps over the bar and falls upon Jace, it’s no contest.
 

He’s obnoxiously hot tonight, with his dark hair and broad shoulders set off by a blue shirt that’s just tight enough to hint at the hard chest underneath. I know I told myself to stay away from him, that he’s figured out too much about me already, but I don’t care. Right now, the only thing I can think about is how he looked when he stepped out of the shower earlier today, the spray of water droplets across his shoulders, his stomach, his lips …

Jace is talking to one of his frat brothers and a couple girls I remember seeing him with earlier by the pool, but as I watch, the girls turn and head for the ladies’ room, and the Alpha guy heads to the bar, leaving Jace alone. It must be fate, I think, and with a giddy grin thread through the crowd toward him. He watches me come, his gaze sliding appreciatively down my tight tank top.

“Hey there, roomie,” he says when I reach him.
 

“Hey there yourself.” I remove Jace’s frosty beer glass from his hands and take a long sip. “Yum.”
 

Jace laughs and reclaims his beer. “Are you mooching off of me now?”
 

“It’s called roommate privileges.”
 

“Maybe I need to set some ground rules too.”
 

“Like what?”
 

“Like …” He leans down toward me and grins. “If you want some of my beer, you should ask first.”

I take advantage of our closeness and place my hand on his arm, brushing my fingers up and down his skin. “Pretty please?” I say, looking straight in his eyes.

His gaze lingers on my mouth before he says, “You feeling okay, Georgie? Back at the art gallery, you looked … upset.”

“I’m
fine
. I just wanted to dance.” I run my fingers through my hair, damp with sweat from the stuffy air in the club. I thought getting with Jace would be easier than this; he isn’t supposed to notice my moods, much less care enough to ask me about it. Time to be less subtle, I guess. I take his hand and pull him toward the dance floor. “Come on.”