Chapter 51
SLUMBER PARTY CONFESSIONS
RORIE
Jeremy is floating on a pool lounger in the shape of a giant martini glass, complete with an inflatable olive bobbing next to his head.
He’s sipping something out of the requisite island coconut vessel, sunglasses perched crookedly on his nose, looking like the poster child for spring break regrets.
I’m draped on the edge of the pool, one leg dangling in the water, nursing a drink with a little umbrella in it because apparently, I’ve become that person. The one who has sex basically everywhere on a private island and suddenly thinks she’s in a Bacardi commercial.
Jeremy tips his shades down, eyes me over the rim of his drink. “Sooo, how’s the Rhodes glow-up treating you?”
I shake my head at him. “Jeremy.”
“What?” He grins. “Don’t act like you aren’t walking different. You’ve got the gait of a woman who’s been rearranged.”
“Maybe it has something to do with my leg injury, Jeremy.”
He shrugs and adjusts his float. “Doubtful. You’ve got this peaceful, freshly fucked energy.”
I splash him. “We are literally pitching to millionaires tomorrow. Can you not?”
“We’ve had five prep meetings and at least three rounds of team mock pitches,” he says. “We’re good. The deck is tighter than your abs after a week of hot-girl pilates.”
I roll my eyes, but the tension in my chest starts to ease. For once, he’s not wrong.
Jeremy grins. “Also, your man, Nolan has the quiet determination of someone who’s memorized your orgasm blueprint and is ready to file for a patent.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t.” He lifts his glass. “To growth. Emotional, sexual, and professional.”
Maya approaches then, beach bag slung over one shoulder, her bob tucked behind her ears and a slight sheen on her cheeks. She’s still gorgeous—even frazzled.
Jeremy perks up. “Ah, the goddess returns. And just in time. I was about to start manifesting you through interpretive float dancing.”
“Tempting,” she says, slipping off her sandals and sinking onto the lounger next to me. “But I don’t think my anxiety could survive a performance piece.”
“You mean the one where Jeremy floats backward off the deep end of capitalism?” I offer, earning a soft laugh.
Maya leans back, closing her eyes. “God, I needed this.”
She barely gets the words out when Jeremy goes still.
His head tilts, smile fading.
And then I see it too.
Asher Cross, in loose linen pants and sunglasses worth more than my apartment deposit, is strolling toward the pool bar.
And clinging to his arm like a decorative scarf?
Celeste Monroe.
Jeremy reacts first. “Don’t panic.”
Maya’s smile drops. “What?”
I don’t even have to follow his gaze. I already feel it.
Celeste’s gauzy dress floats behind her as though she summoned it from a perfume commercial. Her laugh is perfectly modulated. Her manicured hand rests on Asher’s arm like she paid extra for a good grip.
Maya goes silent.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Jeremy mutters, “This island isn’t big enough for her ego and my rage.”
Maya stands. “I need air.”
“Maya—” I grab her hand, but she’s already moving, teeth clenched. “I’m not doing this.”
She bolts.
Jeremy is already waving me on. “Go. I’ll babysit Prince Privilege and his Instagram filter. No promises I won’t hex her, though.”
I mouth thank you and follow.
Maya’s pacing near the outdoor showers, arms folded tight.
Her jaw trembles. Her voice doesn’t. “It’s not even that he brought her. Or that he has to. It’s how smug he looked doing it.”
“You mattered,” I say. “She’s noise. You were the real thing.”
She finally looks at me. Her walls are cracked. It breaks my heart. But this time, I’m not letting her patch them up alone.
“Come with me,” I whisper. “To my cottage. For tonight. No drama. No pretending. Just… air.”
After a moment, she nods. And we walk back, shoulder to shoulder, both of us secretly loving that Jeremy is at the pool bar, dramatically miming a middle finger salute in Celeste’s direction with his cocktail straw.
The cottage smells like buttered popcorn, cheap champagne, and the faint chemical bite of a face mask that definitely wasn’t dermatologist-approved.
Maya’s stretched out on the bed with wet nails and a chilled wine glass balanced between her thighs.
Jeremy is lounging on a floor pillow, robe open, one slipper missing, holding a joint like it’s a mic.
I’m cross-legged on the floor, attempting to paint my toes but smudging three for every one I get right.
“You know what she did?” Maya huffs, waving her hand. “She called me thirsty in the comments. Thirsty. Like I wasn’t the one who taught Asher how to unbutton my shirt with his teeth.”
Jeremy lets out a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “Please hold while I recover from the image of Hollywood’s million dollar man going down on you like a gentleman.”
“Ugh, he was so good at that too,” Maya whines.
I snort. “Girl, you want more wine or a bat? I’ve got both.”
“Both,” she mutters into her glass.
Jeremy perks up. “You know what we should do? TP her cottage. Classic. And disrespectful.”
“Jeremy—” I warn.
“No, hear me out.” He raises a hand. “We sneak over before dawn. Toilet paper her porch swing, the bushes, the tress, leave a few passive-aggressive notes. Maya signs it ‘Your favorite follower.’ Boom. Mic drop.”
“Or we could put Icy Hot in her shampoo,” Maya offers dryly.
“See?” Jeremy says. “This is healing.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “We’re all under an NDA, remember? There’s a clause about retaliation. Plus, this place is packed with security cameras.”
Jeremy waves her off. “Pfft. What’s a legally binding agreement good for anyway?”
“Seriously?” Maya’s brows lift. “You were so excited about signing it. You’re the one who made us use codenames in the GroupMe.”
“Out of respect,” Jeremy says with a sniff. “Also, I didn’t want Nolan’s boring ass to find out we called him Big Dimple Energy behind his back.”
“Like he’d ever know,” Maya argues.
Right then, the front door creaks open.
And there he is.
Nolan “Big Dimple Energy” Rhodes, standing in the doorway, a container of Thai food in one hand and a thoroughly confused expression on his face.
“...Did I interrupt a séance?” he asks.
Jeremy pops to his feet. “You brought food? You’re forgiven. Come. Sit. Let us beautify you.”
“What?” Nolan looks absolutely horrified. As he should.
Thirty minutes later, Maya and I return from soaking in the hot tub to find Nolan shirtless, sprawled across an armchair like he’s given up on dignity altogether, charcoal-grey sheet mask plastered to his face, and fuzzy slippers that were very much not his when the night started.
His toenails are drying in a dangerously glittery coral, while Jeremy dabs concealer under his eyes.
“This stays between us,” Nolan mutters, voice muffled by the mask. “I’m only doing this because you’re Rorie’s best friend. And because you threatened me.” He pauses then adds, flatly. “Multiple times. In writing.”
Jeremy, mid-sip of his possibly-illegal seltzer, watches Nolan as he carefully teases up the front of his hair with my wide-tooth comb. “You rolled your eyes at my serum lineup. This is the natural consequence.”
Nolan’s shift to look at Jeremy.
“You think this is bad?” Jeremy asks. “I’m this close to contouring your abs with bronzer. Not that you need it.”
“Only I get to touch his abs, Jer,” I warn.
“Then I suggest you start moisturizing them. We’re a team now.”
Nolan rolls his eyes. “I’m in hell.”
“Careful, future husband,” Jeremy says, smirking. “Don’t run your mouth again, or next time I start with your eyebrows. And I don’t ask.”
Nolan lifts a brow. “Don’t worry. I won’t be running my mouth like you did. Some of us know how to keep our private footage… private.”
Jeremy freezes. Maya and I both go still.
“What do you mean by that?” I ask Nolan.
He says nothing.
“What does he mean by that?” I ask Jeremy.
Nolan doesn’t even blink. “So, that little nugget about Asher wasn’t exactly news you meant to share, was it?”
Jeremy’s face contorts. “Shit.”
Eyes wide, Maya slowly turns to look at him. “Jeremy.”
“I thought we agreed it was a safe space!” Jeremy yelps, then points a freshly exfoliated finger at Nolan. “And you! You were supposed to be distracted by your eyebrow crisis!”
“I was,” Nolan says coolly. “Until you casually mentioned something about a spa suite and the ‘uncut director’s cut’ of Asher Cross.”
Maya covers her face with both hands. “I’m going to die.”
Jeremy groans. “It slipped out!”
“Oh no,” I say, snorting into my wine glass. “This is a full-blown slip-and-slide of betrayal.”
“I didn’t name names!” Jeremy insists. “I used code words! And I just said someone might have filmed a sex tape with a certain A-list actor in a certain private spa suite. That was all.”
Maya peeks between her fingers. “The words were ‘spa’ and ‘sex tape.’ You’re the worst codebreaker in history.”
“I’m sorry!” Jeremy pleads. “He was shampooing! His hair is so beautiful. I got nervous and panicked!”
Nolan lifts both hands. “Hey—no judgment. Your secret’s safe with me and my sheet mask.” He taps the glittering gold currently dripping off his cheekbone.
Maya sighs, then levels a look at Nolan. “You’re really not going to say anything?”
Nolan shakes his head, serious now. “Not a word. Not to anyone. Especially not to someone who’d use it against you.”
“Thank you, Nolan, seriously. I owe you.”
He shakes his head. “No, you don’t. We’ve all done reckless shit with people we shouldn’t have trusted. Doesn’t mean it defines you. Just means you survived it.”
The room goes quiet. Even Jeremy, who was halfway through applying gold under-eye patches looks up.
“And for what it’s worth,” Nolan says. “Asher made a huge mistake letting you go.” His gaze flits to me.
Maya’s eye water then the tears fall. She shoves a handful of M&M’s into her mouth and chews between sniffles.
I rub her back.