CHAPTER TEN
PETRA
GROUP CHAT: CPK FOREVER
Me: Quick poll: Does it still count as cheating if the guy kissing you was hallucinating from heatstroke?
Cam: Let me guess. Mr. tall, blond, and financially irresponsible with his mouth?
Katie: WHAT?! Bryce kissed you?
Cam: Did his girlfriend fall into a convenient coma or…?
Me: I SAVED HIS LIFE, and this is how he repays me—by making me an accessory to infidelity.
Katie: Was it hot?
Me: Fucking incredible.
Cam: Hmm. Maybe what happens in the jungle stays in the jungle?
YACHT DAY ENSEMBLE (Dolce & Gabbana Maritime Collection)
To Miss Brinkman, my reluctant protege,
Today, you embark on a nautical journey.
The black plunging one-piece features dramatic white bow—DO NOT untie it unless you fancy yourself as the ship’s entertainment.
The midnight sheer cover-up and wide-leg trousers will flutter elegantly in the ocean breeze, assuming you don’t get tangled and fall overboard.
Your accessories include 1) a sun hat large enough to eclipse the moon and 2) sunglasses that would make Jackie Kennedy’s ghost jealous.
Don’t remove the hat. It is doing most of the work to distract from your personality.
—With dwindling faith, Sebastian Bellini, Fashion Emergency Responder
“Yacht day,” I mutter, staring at my reflection. “I look like a widow who poisoned her husband with a martini and then cried at the funeral to throw people off the scent.”
I adjust the bow again. It somehow grew twenty percent in the last sixty seconds.
Is it too much to ask for an easy breezy afternoon of margaritas on the beach? No yachts. No billionaires. No tiny swan-shaped sandwiches.
I sigh and reach for my phone, scrolling through old photos until I find it—the pic of Katie, Cam, and me, sunburned and grinning beneath a plastic Corona umbrella.
It was spring break, sophomore year. We scraped together enough cash for a cheap motel in Cabo. Katie spent the week finding (and scheduling) free excursions, while Cam filmed literally everything, determined to document our “epic poor girl” adventure.
On our last night, we spotted a massive yacht anchored offshore.
Young, drunk, and spectacularly stupid, we decided to crash the party.
We didn’t get far—security stopped us before we even touched the gangplank.
So, we ended up on the beach passing around a bottle of cheap tequila and declaring it the best vacation of our lives. And honestly? It was.
I’d give anything to have them here—Katie and Cam, laughing beside me ( and probably at me in this getup ) . But no, they’re off on their own summer adventures, and I’m stewing in my latest judgment fail.
The kiss.
It wasn’t a maybe-kiss. Not an oops-our-faces-brushed moment.
Our mouths moved as if they understood the choreography by heart. His lips were strong but gentle—ravenous and eager, like he’d been imagining how I would taste. And when he rocked up into me, his thick erection pressing against my clit, well… my body responded without permission.
For those few seconds, I forgot everything. We were all that existed. Only the sensation of him. The feel of his hands on my skin. The way he was moving against me. God, it was hot. But then my brain kicked in and reminded me that I’m nobody’s side piece.
I give myself another look, the bow now slumped at an angle like a disapproving head tilt.
How could I have been so stupid? Bryce is with Amanda—his almost-fiancée.
I’ve spent years telling myself he was different. That under all that money and privilege, he was a good man. Not the type of guy who screws around in secret, then marries the pretty princess with the family seal of approval.
What a fucking joke.
How many times did I tell myself? Rich men don’t fall in love with my type. They use us.
Flirt. Fuck. Discard.
We’re a cheap thrill, something fun to play with. They get bored and move on. The same way dear old dad left my mother.
Bryce crossed a line by kissing me. I should be devastated. But honestly, he deserves a thank-you card. It’ll be so much easier to get over him now that I know he’s a fraud.
Time for a distraction. I grab Echo’s sketchpad from my bag.
Might as well review the contents of that lunatic’s mind before I climb onto a ship filled with people who think dogs deserve inheritances.
Maybe there’s something in here that proves my suspicions about him conspiring with Fiona.
I need a mystery to solve that doesn’t involve my talent for falling for unavailable, out-of-my-league men.
I flip it open. The first few pages? Food. Sketches of tiny sandwiches. So many sandwiches. Cracker stacks. Crostini. An entire page of what seems to be a club sandwich dissected and labeled as if it were an anatomy diagram.
“So Mr. Tree-Humper has opinions about fancy snacks. Disturbing—but nowhere near scandal material.”
Then it gets weirder.
Marvin.
Scribbled.
Everywhere .
Manic handwriting, resembling a ransom note made by someone who’s been left on read too long—big letters, small letters, cursive, print.
“What in the true crime podcast is this?”
More pages. Same name. Over and over. Marvin Marvin Marvin —scribbled like a spell, a plea, a breakdown in ink. Scrawled across every inch of white space until the paper is practically bleeding.
Then portraits of an older gentleman.
Balding. Slouching. Always drawn from weird angles. Close-ups of liver spots. Nose hair. Ear hair. Wrinkles.
And scattered around each sketch, two words are drawn in angry capital letters: Gross and Man .
I study the images, trying to decode this bizarre obsession.
Gross. Man. Marvin.
Who the hell is Marvin?
No idea.
Maybe he’s a vision Echo had after licking too many trees? Or perhaps he’s part of a love triangle with Fiona and some GILF sugar daddy? Could be a metaphor for how repulsed he is by the aging process?
None of it adds up, but then again, welcome to my week.
KNOCK KNOCK!
So much for my subpar detective skills. I open the door to find three Casa Cashmere staffers standing outside.
“Apologies, Miss Brinkman,” a worker says. “We didn’t realize you were occupying the room. We try to go unnoticed during guest transitions. ”
“You’re good,” I say, letting them inside. “And heads up—I’m not one of the trust fund babies. I’m team paycheck-to-paycheck, like you.”
I wave Sebastian’s instruction card as if it’s a white flag. “Need evidence? They literally write step-by-step directions for how I should dress myself. Like they’re afraid I might accidentally wear my underwear as a hat.”
The youngest guy—probably my age—fights down a grin.
I haul my ancient suitcase from behind a decorative chair. “This duct-taped Frankenbag is the real me. Can you get it to the floating mansion?”
“Of course, miss.”
“But don’t let that beauty out of your sight. If this whole thing goes sideways, I’m gonna need it to paddle my broke ass home to reality,” I add with a wink.
The young guy smirks. “We’ll be sure it is accessible for any escape plans.”
Ten minutes and one half-assed sunscreen application later, I’m being chauffeured in a luxury golf cart down the long wooden dock.
And then—there it is.
The superyacht.
That word feels criminally inadequate.
This isn’t a boat. It’s a floating skyscraper that chose to take a swim. The gleaming white hull rises from the water and stretches longer than a city block. Multiple decks stack up toward the sky, crowned with a helipad at the stern.
I head up the gangplank, and the front deck opens into a stunning view of whitewashed wood, striped cushions, and umbrella-shaded seating that’s begging me to spill tequila on it. Staff members discreetly slip across the decks in matching white and navy uniforms with nautical gold accents.
And waiting there is Hana—all sparkle and bubbles, like a pitcher of sangria in heels.
“Petra! Oh wow! You look like Audrey Hepburn, but if she traded her tiara for tattoos. Who knew elegance could be so edgy? I love it.”
I scan her ensemble, wanting to return the compliment. She’s wearing a ruffled rose-colored bikini top with a matching high-waisted skirt. “Pink is definitely your color! Very Barbie heiress on spring break.”
“Oh stop, you’re making me blush! That is exactly what I was going for!”
Hana loops her arm through mine. I let her. Mostly because she smells like vanilla bean and joy.
“Yacht excursions are the best! Well, except for charity luncheons and private shopping appointments, but it’s totally in my top three! What’s your favorite part of yacht trips?”
“This is my first one.”
She gasps. Her hand covers her heart. “That is the saddest sentence I’ve ever heard.
And I follow Fiona’s foundation newsletters.
Last month, they featured this pet psychic who helps animals relive their past lives.
You won’t believe it, but Judith Sterling-Holloway’s parrot was Shakespeare.
That’s why he was always squawking sonnets at three a.m. but needed a translator.
I had my fiancé donate half a million dollars. ”
I grab a fruit-flavored water from a server and choose not to acknowledge that bat-shit crazy nonsense.
Why do Fiona’s charities all sound like rejected TLC reality shows ?
I try to choke down the usual bitterness about the one percent throwing money at vanity projects instead of causes that actually ease human suffering. It’s hard, because people like my friend Jim, a veteran sleeping on the street, don’t fit Fiona’s aesthetic.
“Her most recent cause offers higher education for socialites’ canines,” Hana continues. “Pets can enroll in courses like Barkonomics, Paw-litical Science, and Canine Culinary Arts—all inspired by Miss Muffy Von Cashmere the Second. Isn’t that neat?”
Because the universe needs more dogs with degrees and fewer hands-on solutions to real-world problems.