Page 76 of The SEAL's Duchess
Ivy boarded, scanning for somewhere to sit. The passenger area was functional—bench seating bolted to the deck, no amenities. She looked for an electrical outlet to charge her phone and found nothing. It was an industrial boat, not set up for passenger convenience.
Frustration prickled at the back of her neck, but she was committed now. The boat’s engine motored to life, and a deckhand began untying the mooring lines.
No turning back.
She pulled on Ryder’s gloves, the ones he’d insisted she wear that morning.
Ryder should be here.
But I’m going anyway.
A deckhand, tall and wind-burned, straightened and gave her a once-over as she walked past. As if he couldn’t quite figure out what she was doing here.
“You sure you’re on the right boat?” he asked, wiping his hands on a rag. “We’re not heading out for brunch.”
She managed a polite smile. “I’m meeting someone on the rig.”
That seemed to satisfy him. Barely.
Another guy muttered as he passed, not quite under his breath, “Not our circus.”
Ivy sat straighter on the bench as the boat pulled away from the dock, spine stiffening against the cold metal. She wasn’t here to make friends, she was here to fix the mess.
As they hit open water, the water was gray and choppy, whitecaps forming in the wind. The boat pitched and rolled, and somewhere beneath the diesel roar and slap of waves, unease stirred in her belly.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out—three percent battery. A notification from her calendar app flashed, reminding her about tomorrow’s conference call with the bank.
Then the screen went black.
Dead.
Her stomach dropped. She held the power button—nothing.
Should have waited for Ryder.
The thought sliced through her determination, but she pushed it away. George was signing tomorrow. Jack was out here.
And she’d sent Ryder a text. He’d see it, know where she was.
It had to be enough.
Ivy buttoned her coat against the wind and cold spray, her mind already running through what she had to say. How she’d convince Jack to come back, present the case to George.
And explain to Ryder that she’d boarded a supply boat to a drilling platform without talking to him first.
But for once, she wasn’t stepping in to hold someone else’s world together. She was fighting for the life she wanted—whether or not anyone approved. She’d find Jack, convince her to return to dry land, and be back on shore before dark.
Simple—even though nothing about this felt simple.
Except the way she felt about Ryder. That was the only thing that made sense anymore.
31
Sarah was still talking—somethingabout deliberate cuts—but her voice was just static beneath the white roar in Ryder’s head.
All he could see was Ivy’s car wrapped around that tree, steam rising from the crushed hood, her body limp, her eyes closed.
Fear was useless. Action wasn’t.
