Page 63 of Ruined Vows
“I thrive on the fray.”
“You do,” she agrees. “But so doeshe.”
I don’t respond. Because what do you say to that? That maybe we’re both broken, and we thrive in the darkness?
And maybe he’s the first person who has noticed me for me?
16
VUKAN
THE OCEAN IS THE DEATH OF HER
Before dawn, and I’m already on the dock. I like being early, but today is special because I get another date with Bianca.
The sea air in my lungs and the salt spray are carried in the wind. Damn. It’s windy. My boots scuff against the boards as I scan the horizon, waiting for her.
She’s late. She wants me to wonder where she is— clever girl. But I know when she shows up, it will have been worth the wait. And she doesn’t disappoint as I catch a glimpse of her walking toward me.
She’s wearing black leggings and a white, body-hugging zip-up over what appears to be a black bikini. Her hair is knotted high, and her iconic oversized sunglasses cover half her face. Somehow, she makes boat shoes look like weapons.
She doesn’t dress down. She never does. Shetransforms.And this morning, even standing on a battered dock in front of a beat-up fishing trawler, she looks like the kind of myth men start wars over.
I step forward as she approaches, biting back a grin.
“Nice of you to join us, Borrelli.”
She eyes the boat. Then me.
“This is your idea of a date, Wolfie?”
“You like challenges.”
“I like champagne and room service,” she snarks.
“There’s champagne in the cooler.” I smile. She’s a vision, and I love her sharp wit.
She smirks. “God help me, you planned.” She pretends to be surprised, but she’s not.
“I always do.” She should know by now that I always keep my promises.
The boat is big. Ugly. Industrial. It was built to gut sharks and sling tuna, not for dates.
But she steps aboard like it’s a runway. She doesn’t stumble, and oddly, she doesn’t complain, which most women would. No, she plants herself beside me at the railing, with the wind teasing the loose strands of blonde hair around her face.
“I assume you’ve done this before?” she says, unzipping her jacket just enough to make me forget how to breathe.
“A few times.”
“Right. Serbian mob. Rustic hobbies,” she banters.
“And what do Borrelli women do for fun?”
“Win.”
We’re well off the coast, so I hand her a rod. “Then prove it.” I can’t suppress my smile. What can I say? She makes me happy.
The challenge is laid out, and we start casting.
