CHAPTER TEN #2
Other guests trickle onto the deck, and my eyes do an automatic sweep. I’m scanning for Bryce without meaning to. It’s muscle memory—like checking your mirrors while driving or looking both ways before jaywalking.
Gavin appears with Fiona welded to his arm, and they’re giving off “You Too Can Be Effortlessly Wealthy” seminar vibes. My brother’s rocking a crisp, ivory linen suit. He’s handsome, charming, and confident as hell.
Fiona beams beside him, her cream-colored crochet bikini top complemented by a matching jacket and a form-fitting maxi skirt. Her accessories are minimal but flawless—thin gold chains and delicate hoop earrings that glint beautifully in the sunlight.
Still no sign of Bryce. I’m imagining him overheating on the dock in his wool suit, having absorbed zero lessons from yesterday’s jungle heatstroke disaster.
“Hana! Darling!” Fiona glides with the grace of a swan.
“Oh my gosh! You’re a real-life sea goddess!” Hana squeals. “And such a trendsetter dressed in vintage. That gorgeous piece is from last season, isn’t it? You look so effortlessly fabulous! ”
“How sweet of you to say,” Fiona purrs. “I thought re-wearing something understated would be appropriate for our little nautical adventure. I didn’t want to outshine the ocean.”
“And Gavin,” Hana coos. “Your outfit is so distinguished, but also casual, but then daring at the same time! On my fiancé‘s yacht, he wears this old captain’s hat, and with his white beard, he looks like a Civil War fisherman. But Mother says I can’t leave him in the sun too long, or he’ll shed his skin from head to toe—like a molting snake! ”
There’s a mental image.
Hana may toss compliments like confetti, but they seem genuine. Is she a little clueless? Sure. Brainwashed by her controlling parents? Maybe. But she’s growing on me, and she’s my best bet to getting dirt on Fiona.
So today, Petra Brinkman plays… the heiress bestie.
“Hana’s totally right,” I say. “You two are like a yacht magazine cover story.”
“Makes sense,” Gavin replies. “We had our first date on a yacht.”
Hana squeals. “My fiancé and I had our first date on his yacht too! We started our prenup paperwork right there over dinner! Well, it was split pea soup. My fiancée purees most of his meals. His doctor says anything chunkier might ‘overwhelm his aging jaw muscles.’”
I hide my laugh (this poor girl) . “That’s… sweet. What about you, Fiona? Any cute prenup signing stories? Did you and Gavin celebrate with champagne after dotting all the i’s of who will get the private island?”
Fiona’s eyes narrow and her lips flatten, as if I just dropped a threat. What the fuck ?
Hana giggles. “Oh my gosh, yes! Marriage starts and ends with paperwork. We were just talking about that, weren’t we, Fiona?
My prenup includes a ‘no discussing his ex-wives’ clause.
If he mentions wife number one, I get a girls’ trip.
I love traveling, so let him complain about her taking half his first billion. It’s a win-win!”
The look of horror on Fiona’s face is a dead giveaway that I’m on to something.
I slap on my best pageant smile and press further. “So spill! Tell us your prenup situation. You guys have it all worked out? Any fun clauses, like if my bro works on Christmas, you get to spank him with a monogrammed paddle?”
“Well, sis, prenups are complicated, but if you must know, we’re still—”
“Gav-Gav. We agreed that’s our personal husband and wife affairs.”
“You’re right, Fi. That’s Mr. and Mrs. talk.” He kisses her cheek. “Petra, have a minute? I need updates on the wedding logistics plus a few other business details.”
Fiona sighs. “Okay. But after this, no more work. You promised.”
He gives her a nod, then leads me away from the others while Hana and Fiona initiate a selfie marathon. If he thinks I’m letting the whole conversation die, he has another thing coming. My Fiona radar is a car alarm going off in a bad neighborhood (I should know!) .
“Have you seen Bryce?” he asks, scanning the deck. “He’s not usually late.”
“He’s a big boy with a family bank account that solves everything. If he’s running behind, he’ll just helicopter in like the dramatic billionaire he is. ”
“Petra.” Gavin’s voice takes on that dad edge I hate. “I know busting Bryce’s balls is your go-to hobby, picking on the rich guy or whatever, but do me a favor. Cut him some slack.”
“Why would I do that?”
Gavin steps closer and whispers, “Listen, this has to stay between us, okay? Bryce and Amanda split up right before this trip.”
Everything tilts sideways. The ocean starts spinning.
He’s single?!
Bryce Sterling is fucking SINGLE!
Which means yesterday in the jungle when he kissed me like I was oxygen—he wasn’t cheating. He wasn’t some bored billionaire treating me like his dirty little secret while his girlfriend was off manifesting their wedding.
That was him. Kissing me. For real?
Holy shit holy shit HOLY SHIT!
“Wildcat? You okay? You look as if you’re going to pass out.”
Act normal, Petra. Do not start squealing like a teenage girl. Play it cool—no one needs to know your ovaries just high-fived because your dream guy is officially up for grabs.
I blink rapidly, trying to reboot my brain. “Yeah. Fine. Um… surprised is all. They seemed pretty serious.”
“He’s dealing with the fallout. So I’m telling you—go easy on him. Bryce is family, and family sticks together, especially when personal shit hits the fan.”
“All right, I won’t give him a hard time,” I manage to croak out.
But in my head?
It’s chaos.
Screaming chaos.
He’s single .
He’s single.
HE’S SINGLE!!!
Breathe, you maniac. You’re spiraling harder than a washing machine with a brick in it. He kissed you because of heatstroke. Not because he like, WANTS you, wants you.
Vagina: But what if he’s secretly harboring feelings?
Me: Shh. You just liked his glorious cock tap dancing against your clit.
Vagina: It was sensational. Let’s do it again!
Me: Shut your horny hole! I need to think.
This isn’t real. This is heatstroke and hormones. My vagina’s writing fan fiction about a guy I’ve wanted for a decade. Facts, not fantasies—that’s what matters here.
And then Bryce appears on deck.
Oh. My. Fuck. He’s actually wearing it.
Our deal from the limo. If I had to dress like a proper socialite, he had to dress like a normal person on vacation. I never thought he’d really do it. I figured he’d find some loophole or show up in a ten-thousand-dollar “casual” linen suit.
But there he is, sporting the fashion hate crime I forced Sebastian into styling.
Imagine a pina colada threw up on a Bass Pro Shop then got lost on its way to a Jimmy Buffett restaurant.
Banana-yellow board shorts covered in tiny hot-pink flamingos doing yoga poses and a salmon Hawaiian shirt loud enough to guide ships to shore. He’s also wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat with a tropical print band. And, I can’t believe it… neon orange Crocs.
Gavin chokes on his cucumber water. “Jesus Christ. Told you he’s having a breakdown.”
Yeah. So am I.
“Hello, Gavin… Petra,” he says.
I squeak. Actually squeak. “Hey, Moneybags. Nice… outfit.”
“Glad you’re amused.” His lips curve into a subtle smirk.
Oh fuck nuggets. He smirked. At me. Shit. Why am I suddenly fifteen again and worried my crush knows I like him? What do I do? What do I say?
Brain cells, report for duty! I need at least one of you functioning.
Actually, scratch that. Don’t say anything. No talkie, no explode-y. Because you will fuck this up—that’s your superpower. You turn perfectly good moments into flaming garbage fires.
Fiona materializes. “Oh dear LORD, Bryce! What are you wearing? I honestly thought you were some homeless beach bum who stumbled onto the ship.”
Bryce shrugs. “I don’t claim to understand fashion. But Sebastian styled it specifically for yacht day. I believe it’s Versace… with Pip’s added inspiration.”
“Well, you know what they say about guys who wear Crocs,” I snort. “Big feet, huge di—dimensions.”
Did I just make a dick joke? To Bryce Sterling? While standing next to my brother?
Yes. Yes, I did.
Bryce’s eyes flash with barely hidden amusement, and I tumble deeper into my personal anxiety tornado.
Breaking news: My ovaries are barking like deranged seals.
Stop reading into it, Petra. He’s humoring you. This is Croc fashion banter, not a declaration of love.
Vagina: Sweetie, he wants to explore us like we’re the Mariana Trench—only wetter and more dangerous .
Me: I said no talking.
Fiona chirps, “Oh, if Sebastian approved it, then it’s groundbreaking. He’s never wrong.”
I catch Gavin’s detective eyes ping-ponging between Bryce and me as if he’s tracking evidence at a crime scene. My panic meter swells.
“Yeah, well, Sebastian’s track record isn’t exactly flawless,” I babble. “He warned me not to untie this bow contraption, or it’s gonna be boobs ahoy.”
Bryce’s eyes drop to the giant white bow covering my chest, and his pupils dilate.
This is either the most mortifying or the most arousing moment of my life.
DING DING DING!
The ship’s bell clangs. Thank God!
Nigel—Lord Britchybottom—Featherwick glides across the deck in his damn tuxedo, resembling a butler who’s been cryogenically frozen for centuries. How is he not melting? Maybe he’s an old-timey ghost? That would explain the wardrobe.
He raises one pristine gloved hand. “Before our imminent departure, Miss Muffy Von Cashmere the Second wishes to extend a personal maritime welcome aboard her floating estate, The Pawseidon .”
Miss Muffy emerges—the queen of the seven seas—holding her head high, the very picture of four-legged regality. White sunglasses are perched on her furry little snout.
Except. Oh my God.
She’s wearing my outfit.
A black swimsuit with the EXACT same white bow. She’s me. I’m her. We’re twins (minus the opposable thumbs).
“You have got to be shitting me!” I shout.