Chapter 15 #2
I let myself be herded with the other bridesmaids, clutching my champagne like a lifeline.
The first hour was almost normal. We played the stupid games Mia and I had organized—bridal bingo, guess the dress, something involving ribbons and wishes that I didn't quite follow.
I stuck to the edges of the group, slowly nursing my drink, pretending I wasn't hyperaware of every movement from the men's side of the yacht.
They'd claimed the upper deck like a fortress, prospects manning the bar while the patched members held court. The separation should have made things easier. Should have.
Except I could feel Tyson watching. Not obviously, not in any way others would notice. But I'd learned his attention like a second language—the weight of his gaze when he thought I wasn't looking, the way his body angled toward mine even from across the boat.
By drink two, I was feeling bold. Or stupid. The line got blurry with champagne bubbles and the challenge of the game we were playing.
"I need another drink," I announced, standing carefully in my ridiculous heels.
"Get one for me!" Mandy called after me, happy and laughing. She was really going for it tonight. She was normally pretty reserved, even though she was a Little. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her cut loose like this.
The bar was technically neutral territory. Had to be, or the prospects would have died of dehydration serving two separate parties. I made my way up the narrow stairs, very aware of how the dress moved with each step.
Tyson was at the bar, because of course he was. The universe had a sense of humor. He stood with his back to me, shoulders tight with tension, talking to Wiz about something that required a lot of hand gestures.
I could have gone to the other end of the bar. Could have waited until he moved. Could have done a dozen things that didn't involve deliberately brushing against him as I reached for napkins.
"Oops, sorry," I said innocently, the words pitched just for him. "Didn't see you there."
His whole body went rigid. I was close enough to hear his sharp intake of breath, to feel the heat coming off him in waves. His knuckles went white where he gripped his beer bottle.
"Careful, little girl." The words were barely audible, a growl meant just for me.
"Of what?" I pressed closer than necessary, ostensibly reaching for more napkins. My breast brushed his arm, and I felt rather than heard his low groan. "The boat's not even moving yet."
"It's not the boat I'm worried about," he muttered.
Wiz cleared his throat loudly. "Lena. Didn't see you there."
I straightened, stepping back with my handful of napkins like I hadn't just been torturing Tyson with proximity. "Hey, Wiz. Great party."
"Mmm." His eyes tracked between us, too knowing for comfort. "Better get back to the bride. Think they're starting another game."
A dismissal wrapped in politeness. I took it, flashing them both a bright smile that probably fooled nobody. As I walked away, I added a little extra sway to my hips. The sound Tyson made—part growl, part groan—was worth whatever punishment waited for me later.
"You're evil," he texted before I even made it back to the main deck.
"You love it," I typed back, then added a kiss emoji just to be a brat.
Three dots appeared and disappeared several times before he finally sent: "Really looking forward to discussing this behavior later."
I shivered despite the warm evening air and rejoined the bridal party, trying to pretend my whole body wasn't humming with anticipation.
The party was just getting started, and I was already in trouble.
By the third drink, my careful juice box calculations were as abandoned as my impulse control.
The champagne bubbles fizzed through my bloodstream like tiny enablers, whispering that a little teasing never hurt anyone.
My rational brain—the one that remembered Duke's knowing looks and Tyson's warnings—had gone suspiciously quiet.
"Pin the veil on the bride!" Sarah announced, producing a life-sized cardboard Mandy that someone had created with terrifying artistic dedication. "Who's first?"
The game was ridiculous. Blindfolded, mostly drunk bridesmaids stumbling around trying to pin a paper veil on cardboard Mandy's head while everyone shouted contradicting directions.
I was bent over, collecting dropped pins that had scattered across the deck, when I felt it—that familiar electric awareness that meant Tyson was watching.
I straightened slowly, making sure the movement showed every line of the dress, every curve it clung to. A glance over my shoulder confirmed what I already knew. He stood at the upper deck railing, beer bottle forgotten in his hand, eyes locked on me with an intensity that made my skin burn.
His knuckles were white where he gripped the bottle. Good.
"Your turn, Lena!" someone called, and I let myself be blindfolded, spinning in circles until I was genuinely dizzy. The game dissolved into chaos and laughter, but all I could think about was the weight of his stare, the promise of consequences later.
"Never Have I Ever!" Mandy declared once we'd exhausted the veil game. We arranged ourselves in a circle on the deck, drinks refreshed, inhibitions thoroughly drowned. "Bridal edition!"
The first few were tame. Never have I ever gone skinny dipping. Never have I ever been arrested. Standard party fare that had half of us drinking and sharing stories. Then the questions got interesting.
"Never have I ever," Mandy giggled, already flushed with champagne and happiness, "hooked up with someone at a club party."
Half the boat drank, including several of the wives who tried to look innocent about it. I took a deliberate sip, making direct eye contact with Tyson as I did. He shifted against the railing, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jump from across the deck.
"Story time!" someone demanded.
"A lady doesn't kiss and tell," I said primly, which got laughs and protests in equal measure.
"Never have I ever," another bridesmaid said with a wicked grin, "called someone Daddy in bed."
The words hit like a lightning strike. Several women drank immediately, no shame in their game. I hesitated for half a second—just long enough to see Tyson's whole body go rigid—then took a deliberate sip.
The sweet champagne might as well have been gasoline for how it burned going down. Tyson's expression was carved from stone, but his eyes . . . his eyes promised retribution that made my thighs clench.
The game continued, but the questions blurred together. All I could focus on was the tension radiating from Tyson.
"Musical chairs!" Sarah announced, because apparently we were determined to play every party game ever invented. "Everybody up!"
Someone had arranged deck chairs in a circle, one short as tradition demanded. The music started—some terrible 90s pop that had everyone groaning—and we began the awkward shuffle-walk around the chairs.
When the music stopped, chaos erupted. I dove for the nearest chair, only to find it occupied.
By Tyson.
What the hell? Why was he here?
“Tyson?”
“Looked like fun,” he said, arching a brow.
I ended up on his lap for exactly two seconds. Two seconds that felt like hours.
His hands came up automatically to steady me, burning through the thin fabric of my dress. I felt every hard line of his body, the way his breath caught, the tension humming through him like a live wire.
People were staring.
"You're playing with fire," I whispered, the words so low only he could hear them.
"Maybe I like getting burned," he whispered back, then the music started again and I bounced off to find another chair, leaving him sitting there looking like he'd been hit by a truck.
The game devolved after that, people more interested in dancing than competing.
The DJ had switched to something with actual rhythm, and the deck transformed into a makeshift dance floor.
I let myself be pulled into the circle of bridesmaids, moving to the music, trying to pretend my whole body wasn't hyperaware of where Tyson stood.
He'd returned to his spot at the railing, but his attention never wavered. I could feel it like a physical touch, tracking every movement, every sway of my hips. The rational part of my brain screamed that I was being too obvious, that Duke might be watching, that this was dangerous.
The champagne-soaked part of my brain suggested I make my dancing a little more . . . interesting.
I let the music take over, movements becoming more fluid, more sensual. Nothing overtly inappropriate—just enough to torture a certain VP who couldn't look away. My hands traced up my sides, through my hair, back down in a motion that was purely for his benefit.
"Damn, Lena!" Mandy laughed, spinning me around. "Where'd you learn to move like that?"
"Natural talent," I lied, catching Tyson's expression over her shoulder. He looked like he was about to either combust or commit violence. Possibly both.
Wiz actually had to elbow him to break his stare, leaning in to say something that made Tyson's expression go from hungry to murderous in seconds flat. Whatever Wiz said, it was enough to make him step back from the railing, disappearing into the crowd of bikers on the upper deck.
"You okay?" Sarah appeared at my elbow, teacher instincts apparently picking up on the undercurrents. "You look flushed."
"Just the champagne," I said, fanning myself with my hand. "And the dancing. Maybe I should get some water."
"Good idea. Can't have the bridal party passing out before the real fun starts." She winked, which was concerning. What constituted 'real fun' in Sarah's mind?
I made my way to the water station, very carefully not looking for Tyson. The night air helped clear my head slightly, reminding me that I was walking a very dangerous line. Duke's suspicion was palpable, and I'd been about as subtle as a neon sign.