After lunch, Jake takes us ashore on the speedboat which is moored to the back of the yacht. He doesn’t say anything again about my hair, whether I should cut it or not, and I don’t bring it up. He has a car and driver waiting on land to take us anywhere we desire, and leaves us with a goodbye at the port, and orders to call him when we’re returning.
He hands me a credit card which I try to push back at him but meet his death glare. I know better than to argue with that look. I slide it in my bag, knowing better than to push when he made it clear before we came here that this was all on him. That if I even mentioned paying for a single thing, he would tie me up and dump me in the ocean. Jake’s funny about very few things, but women paying is a strong dislike. He likes to be the traditiona
