The yacht moved beneath them with the slow, particular rhythm of a vessel at anchor—not the purposeful surge of open water but the gentle, rocking patience of something that had arrived somewhere and was simply resting there. Through the lounge windows, the night had settled fully over the marina, the water dark and lamp-lit, the city a low amber glow on the horizon beyond the dock lights.
The dinner things had been cleared. Two bottles of wine had replaced the champagne—one finished, one most of the way there. The lounge held the kind of warmth that came from conversation and heat and the accumulated ease of two people who had stopped performing for the night and had not yet decided what to do with that.
