CHAPTER TWELVE
PETRA
He dined and dashed. With a smug grin that said, You’re welcome.
Next time, I’m either going to slap that smirk off his face or sit on it. Decisions, decisions.
I press my eye against my cabin door peephole, fully embracing my inner nosy neighbor.
Across the hall: The Door of Doom, aka Bryce’s room.
“Come on out, Billionaire Boy,” I mutter. “Face me like a man.”
I groan and thunk my forehead on the doorframe with a dramatic thump. I didn’t sleep last night— not even a little . I kept blaming it on boat stuff: the gentle rocking, the low engine hum, the water lapping at the hull.
Total lies.
The truth is, I spent the entire evening replaying every breathless second in that glass pod on the ocean floor.
His confession. His hands. His tongue—
Nope. Down, girl. It’s barely eight a.m., and you’ve already blacked out three times thinking about it .
I’ve spent years analyzing Bryce Sterling’s micro-expressions. He drums his fingers on his thigh every time he’s uncomfortable. His left eyebrow twitches if he’s annoyed but trying to be polite. His jaw muscle jumps when he’s fighting a smile.
But swagger? Giving me a mind-melting orgasm and walking away with a wink and a one-liner?
I don’t know this man at all.
Thank God for Gavin’s wedding emergency emails: vendor meltdowns, seating chart crises, and absurd guest gift bags gave my brain something else to spiral over. Who needs bride and groom bubbles when you’re gifting exotic vacations and literal diamonds? These aren’t party favors—they’re dowries.
At three a.m., Katie saved my ass with a FaceTime call—ten in the morning for her in Italy.
Despite strolling through an Italian piazza looking chic and stunning, she used her supreme event planner skills to help me.
For over an hour, we emailed vendors, fixed monogram font spacing, and translated Fiona’s boujee aesthetics.
Apparently, there’s a critical difference between cream and ivory, and calling it white-ish gets you side-eyed by the bridal mafia.
I did NOT mention the mind-blowing underwater oral session.
My besties picked up the pieces of my heart the last time Bryce unknowingly wrecked it. Trying to pass off his skilled tongue as the reason I caved? Yeah, that’s not gonna cut it. I swore to them I would never fall for him again.
But my brain? She’s a slut for delusion.
Deep down I already know how this ends. This isn’t a storybook romance where the rich guy chooses the messy girl with no filter. This is more… hot billionaire has some fun with the troublemaker until re al wife material shows up. Someone more blonde. Less sarcastic.
Still, I’ve been fantasizing about that moment last night since I was fifteen fucking years old. And it was better , so much better, than all my teenage dreams combined.
That mortifying slip-up: “I’m completely and utterly yours.”
Are you trying to fuck this up, Petra?
Bryce cannot discover I’ve carried this torch since high school. He has to think this attraction is new. Like I just discovered he has a penis and suddenly found it fascinating.
Back to the peephole—no movement. I march to the mirror for a final look at today’s unzip-me ensemble.
This olive-green jumpsuit I’m wearing matches perfectly with my trusty black combat boots. It’s cinched at the waist, clinging in all the right spots, and says “I’m outdoorsy—let’s make out.” I ease the center zipper halfway to danger, revealing my crimson bikini underneath.
Secret weapon time.
Digging into one of the many pockets, I pull out my faithful drugstore lipstick and slick on another layer of “come hither” red.
Footsteps in the hallway send me scrambling to my spy position.
Not Bryce. Hana. She’s skipping past my room in a tennis outfit so white and bouncy-bright, she looks like she’s headed to Wimbledon instead of an off-roading expedition.
We’re riding ATVs through the jungle, not sipping cucumber water at the country club.
Suddenly, his doorknob turns and my pulse skyrockets. Operation Make Bryce Sterling Regret His Smug Exit is officially a go .
Sarcasm: loaded. Attitude: armed. Fucks to give: zero. He wants to act the elusive, cocky billionaire. Fine. Two can play that game.
Three authoritative knocks echo off the door.
I yank the zipper down to my thighs in an impromptu burlesque move, letting the jumpsuit gape open to showcase my bikini-wrapped assets. Then, I fling the door wide.
Bryce takes one look and clears his throat loudly. “My apologies. I thought you’d be dressed.”
“I am.”
His gaze trails down my torso like I’m a buffet and he’s ranking appetizers to devour first.
I peek down at myself, feigning surprise. “Again? This stupid thing keeps slipping down. You better keep an eye on it, or I might trip and fall directly out of my clothes.”
I zip up— slowly —watching his finger tap-tap-tap.
“Come on, babysitter. We’ve got a sweaty playdate in the jungle.”
I brush past him, my breasts grazing his chest—totally on purpose. His sharp inhale behind me? Music to my chaotic little ears.
Let the games begin, Moneybags.
***
Back at Casa Cashmere, we’re greeted by automotive paradise. Talk about sex on wheels—this garage has it all. Ferraris, Lamborghinis, motorcycles, and endless rows of off-road vehicles. Whatever a billionaire fancies, Casa Cashmere has it—detailed, dazzling, and ready to roll out .
Staff in matching blue polos swarm around the wedding party as they prepare for our 4x4 adventure. Helmets snap into place, headsets tangle in manicured fingers, and the row of ATVs rumble in formation.
Bryce and I gear up side by side. I drink in his transformation from corporate clone to rugged outdoorsman. Holy hell, Sebastian deserves a serious bonus.
Dark khakis sculpt his legs while that cream henley hugs his torso exactly where it counts. But it’s the half-buttoned olive gray shirt layered on top that causes my thighs to clench, bringing back the memory of his shirt flying open before he sank to his knees.
I want to strip him down, layer by layer, until there’s nothing between us but bad decisions.
Nope. Stick to the plan. Make him beg. This richie rich must be mind-fucked.
I snap my helmet into place and tap the microphone. “Testing, testing… So what’s the seating arrangement here? Do I get to steer this beast, or will you be maneuvering me like you did last night?”
A chuckle crackles through the receiver. “You’re riding behind me, Pip. Get a good grip—I don’t go slow.”
I cock my head with a teasing grin. “Should I be concerned about your stamina? I mean, you tapped out pretty early yesterday with that ‘no sex’ excuse.”
Before Bryce can serve up a smug one-liner, we overhear Fiona whining.
“But babe. I was picturing a more sensual activity. Like you, shirtless, getting a massage while I feed you grapes. Not ruining my romper on a glorified lawnmower. ”
She and Hana are both dressed for a garden party and not a joyride through a swamp pit.
“Fi, we had a deal,” Gavin says. “One thing. Just one damn thing I wanted to do this week. And this is it!”
“But Gav-Gav, this is so… barbaric. I assumed you’d pick something more civilized.”
“We have eleven spa appointments on the schedule,” Gavin sighs. “I agreed to your group chakra healing, the seaweed wraps, and even the couple’s full-moon sound bath. This is the one thing I asked for. C’mon. You can survive two hours on an ATV.”
Ooh, trouble in paradise. This is the first time I’ve seen cracks in their pre-wedding love bubble, and I am here for it. Popcorn in hand. Zoomed all the way in.
Hana makes a beeline for us, fleeing the tension. Bryce glues himself to his phone, avoiding the chatterbox like a pro.
“Oh my goodness, this is going to be such an adventure! I never get to do things this exciting! My fiancé and I take walks together, but anything past the driveway and he needs his walker. But honestly, it’s super convenient because there’s a cup holder attachment for my water bottle and extra storage for his heart medication! ”
Seriously, what the fuck do I say to this girl’s stories?
Hana continues her ramble. “I’m not even strapped in yet, and I already feel like a rebel! Can you keep a secret?”
“Depends.” I say. “Will I be legally required to testify?”
“I didn’t get permission to do this,” she whispers. “I signed the waiver without calling my mom or my fiancé‘s assistant. I didn’t even read it!”
“Hana Choi. You dirty little thrill-seeker. I am so fucking proud. ”
She starts hyperventilating. “Oh geez. What if they find out? I’m not bold like you, Petra. My heart is racing. Maybe I shouldn’t.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Take a breath. They don’t have to like it. You’re not a collectible doll, Hana. You’re a grown-ass woman.”
“You’re totally right. I’m doing it. I’m being a bad girl. OH GOSH—I GOTTA PEE AGAIN.”
I feel oddly proud as I watch Hana bounce toward the restrooms.
“So… corrupting all the rich people now?” Bryce asks. “I thought I was your special project.”
There’s that cocky smirk. He’s so fucking gorgeous.
“Aw, look at you. Already needy, and we haven’t even hit second gear yet.”
All these different sides of him—the controlled businessman, the dominant tease, the snarky smartass—it’s sensory overload.
“Distinguished guests!” Nigel’s crisp accent cuts through the garage chatter. “Your attention, if you please, for our safety orientation.”
After yesterday’s sequined salsa spectacle, I thought nothing Nigel Featherwick could wear would shock me.
Wrong. The man, usually straight out of a period drama, is now in full military camouflage, complete with combat pants and a tactical shirt.
His ATV helmet and aviation goggles make him look ready for a fighter jet mission.
“Due to recent rainfall, terrain conditions are especially challenging,” Nigel continues. “Please exercise appropriate caution and reduce speed when necessary.”
Two Casa Cashmere security guards—clearly ex-military—step forward. One nods. The other salutes. Then… the strapping begins .