32. Scarlett
Scarlett
I woke up with the taste of wine still on my tongue, regret lurking somewhere just behind my eyes.
The light filtering through the window was too bright as Hemingway snored at my feet like he hadn’t been abandoned in my bedroom while I played emotional roulette last night.
My head hurt.
My pride hurt more.
And under it all—regret bloomed slow and sour.
I sat up slowly, one hand on my temple. “Okay, we’re just going to pretend none of that happened.”
Hemingway snorted in agreement.
I pulled on the first clothes I could find—hoodie, shorts, emotional damage—and tried not to think too hard.
Hemingway padded after me, loyal as ever, his nails clicking against the wood floor like a countdown.
Downstairs, the house was quiet in the way that made you suspicious—as if everyone was awake but pretending not to be. I padded into the kitchen barefoot, still in my hoodie and shorts, hair a mess, face unwashed, soul halfway to hell.
The girls were already there.
Sloane was perched on the counter with a mug of black coffee, Lena standing by the stove trying to pretend she could cook.
They looked up the moment I walked in.
“Oh no,” Lena said, smiling too wide. “You have that look.”
“What look?” I asked, reaching for the fridge like I wasn’t seconds from spiraling.
Sloane sipped her coffee. “The ‘I emotionally destroyed two men last night and now I need to make eggs to atone’ look.”
I groaned. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was worse,” she said.
“Great,” Lena chirped, hopping in. “Pancakes and guilt it is.”
I buried my face in the fridge door.
Kanes voice sliced through the quiet.
“Soooo… is someone going to explain why Alden looks like he saw God and Trace looks like he wants to kill him?”
I slammed the fridge shut. “I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not,” Sloane said calmly. “You’re making pancakes and telling us everything.”
I looked at Hemingway, who sneezed.
It was going to be a long morning.
“I made it strong,” Sloane said, handing me a mug of coffee—a peace offering. “You’re gonna need it.”
I took it without a word, leaning against the counter while Lena hovered next to me, practically vibrating with curiosity. While Hemingway circled my ankles like he hadn’t just slept through an emotional war.
“Did you sleep at all?” Lena asked.
“I don’t remember,” I muttered, taking a sip.
Sloane watched me. She didn’t push, not yet. But she was waiting for me to crack.
Kane sat at the table, bare-chested and smirking like he knew exactly what kind of mess I’d made. He had a plate of toast and a glint in his eye like he’d been waiting for this morning his entire life.
He popped a piece of bacon in his mouth. “Soooo… I ask again… are we gonna talk about what happened last night?
I groaned. “Still not talking about that.”
Rhett walked in, hair damp from a shower, stretching like he’d just conquered a 5am run we all knew damn well didn’t happen. “Morning, chaos crew,” he said, voice a little too cheerful.
He looked to Trace, entering just behind him. “Any word from Zeke?”
The air shifted.
Trace grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it at the sink, his movements calm. “Not lately.”
His tone made me pause.
Sloane noticed too, glancing at me.
Lena’s smile faltered. Her fingers paused mid-stir in her mug, the silence hitting her like a cold breeze. She didn’t speak—but she leaned a little closer to me, instinctively seeking warmth.
Kane didn’t say a word.
Which told me everything.
Sloane picked up on it too, her grip tightening just slightly on her mug as she sipped her coffee.
“Sketchy,” she muttered.
Rhett just shrugged, helping himself to toast like he hadn’t just set the whole room on edge.
Trace acted like nothing happened.
Meanwhile, I hadn’t stopped replaying every second.
Kane was already halfway through a cinnamon roll when he smiled. “So… yacht this afternoon?”
The kitchen stilled for a second.
“A what?” I asked, blinking.
“A yacht,” he repeated, mouth full. “Like a big-ass, floating rich guy fantasy. Trace pulled some strings.”
I turned to look at Trace, still nursing a black coffee and pretending to be part of the wallpaper.
“You chartered a yacht?” I asked, half-laughing.
He shrugged. “I figured we could use a day on the water.”
Kane clapped once. “See? You’re welcome.”
Sloane snorted. “You did nothing.”
Lena perked up. “Okay, but what are we wearing? This feels like a dress-up situation.”
“It’s a yacht,” I said. “It’s always a dress-up situation.”
Sloane grabbed my arm. “Let’s go raid our bags.”
Upstairs, the energy changed.
The sun was pouring through the windows, our coffees forgotten, music playing low from Lena’s phone. Swimsuits were flung across beds, cover-ups debated, and lip gloss reapplied with the seriousness of a military op.
I found the one I was looking for tucked at the bottom of my bag.
Red. High-cut. Strappy.
Loud. Bolder. Hungrier.
I added a sheer, see-through cover-up that tied at the waist and left little to the imagination.
Sloane whistled. “Jesus.”
Lena grinned. “Trace is gonna have an aneurysm.”
“That’s the point,” I muttered, running a brush through my hair.
The girls scattered to touch up their makeup, and I stepped out into the hall to grab earrings from my overnight bag pausing near the landing.
“…I said we don’t move yet,” Trace said, his voice low, clipped.
A pause.
“I don’t care what Zeke thinks. I’ll handle it.”
I froze.
Another beat of silence. Then the front door opened. Closed.
When I peeked over the stair rail, Trace was gone.
I slipped back into the room, heart thudding too fast.
Lena held up a pair of gold hoops. “These or the sparkles?”
I blinked smiling like nothing was wrong. “Uh—gold.”
But something was different.