Page 1 of Uncharted Desires

One

If the boat sank with her on it, Katrina Brooks was completely fine with that, her life was over anyway. He had shared the video on his social media pages. No formal press conferences, no build up, nothing. The press had scooped it up in an instant, sharing it everywhere. The headline repeated itself as Kat scrolled through her phone, the words on the screen blurring together.

“He wouldn’t . . . he didn’t . . .” she said to no one in particular, her voice trembling.

NPR, TMZ, ABC; the initialed media of the world all heralded the end of her existence as she knew it. Not only would Kat be out of a job, but she would be out of the industry.

And then it started. The text messages, one after another.

What’s going on?

What do you know?

Why would he do this?

None of her supposed friends asked how she was doing. Kat closed her eyes, letting out a steady stream of air as she swiped left on every message, ignoring their demands.

Her phone vibrated again in her hand, and she cursed as she saw the screen.

Mother Dearest.

She wouldn’t be answering that one.

Call me back, Katy.

Can’t. On the yacht. Poor service. I’ll call when we get to Jakarta.

Then how can you text me?

I’m not going to explain Wi-Fi vs cell service to you. I promise I’m fine and will call you in a couple of days.

The telltale three dots appeared and disappeared. Kat didn’t wait to see if her mother would respond, stashing the phone in her pocket. She wasn’t lying to her mother. Service was spotty on the yacht, and her phone would soon be nothing more than a fancy camera for the last leg of their trip.

“Did you see the news?” Lydia, one of Kat’s best friends and fellow backing singer, said, plopping down next to her on the yacht’s fluffy couch.

“How could I miss it? It’s the only thing anyone has posted,” Kat said, exasperated, as she looked out at the ocean.

“Have you watched the video yet?”

Kat turned to her other friend and fellow singer, Cher, an effervescent blonde who had flung herself down on her other side. “No, why would I? I have no urge to give that man more views.”

Cher handed her the phone. “Because it’s our jobs on the line.”

Kat scrunched up her nose, holding the phone at arm’s length, glaring at the video in question. She didn’t want to see this. The headlines all said he’d retired, but they hadn’t said why. Once she watched the video and heard it from his mouth, it would be real; it would be over for her.

After a decade of being the tour pianist and backing singer for Weston Monroe, the king of romantic rock songs, Kat didn’t want to see her life falling apart. She barely made ends meet as it was. Now what would she do? A wave of nausea overcame her as she envisioned singing backing vocals for someone else, or worse, playing piano at a dueling piano bar for the rest of her days.

Lydia leaned over and hit play. Kat’s stomach did a slight flip at the sight of him. Weston was on the beach not more than a few hundred feet away from where Kat sat on the yacht. A pink and yellow Hawaiian-style shirt hung loose and unbuttoned on his muscled frame—a physique he had toned to perfection over the past year—and after their week-long vacation, his tan skin glowed in the Indonesian sun and his shaggy, dark blond hair glistened as it curled at his nape. A golden Adonis among men, according to GQ, and Kat hated to admit they weren’t far off.

His swim trunks outlined his toned legs, ending mid-thigh. She found herself drawn to his long, six-four frame, even though she knew she shouldn’t be. After spending a decade on stage with him, she’d learned to ignore the attraction that bubbled up inside her whenever he stood too close or bothered to acknowledge her existence. She simply needed to remind herself of his condescending, womanizing personality, and the butterflies disappeared.

The ocean lapped behind him as the sun began its ascent into the sky. The pinks and reds cast an ethereal light around him, only adding to his god-like qualities.

“My friends,” he began, giving the camera a deep smolder. The creases at his deep blue eyes only made him appear more handsome, rather than old, as they did her.

“Oh please . . .” Kat snorted.

Cher smiled. “If one thing can be said about West Monroe, it’s that he knows how to turn on the charm.”