33. Scarlett
Scarlett
T he dock stretched into the lake, a quiet secret exposed under the sun—burning high and hot enough to sting.
Warmth clung to my skin, making me feel half-awake, half-dreaming.
The water shimmered with that late-summer glint, and the yacht—because that’s exactly what it was—looked like something out of a movie.
Sleek, white, too polished to belong here.
It appeared as if someone had dropped it from a billionaire's daydream, leaving it in the wrong place for the wrong people.
Trace stood near the edge of the dock, talking quietly to the captain, his dark shirt hugging his frame, tight across his shoulders.
He didn’t turn when we approached, but I felt him clock me anyway.
Lena gasped. “Trace. Are you secretly a billionaire?”
Kane slung an arm over her shoulder. “Plot twist. Trace is Bruce Wayne. But like… the emotionally repressed version.”
“So, the actual Batman,” Sloane said, already pulling her sunglasses down dramatically.
Lenas eyes lingered on the yacht a second too long, before she said, half to Rhett, “Kind of wild what money can cover up, huh?”
Rhett looked away as I walked past them, tugging my cover-up tighter.
I stepped onto the deck. There were lounge chairs arranged like a magazine spread, drinks already set out on a shaded table, music drifting from speakers built into the railing playing something soft and expensive sounding.
“You good?” Sloane asked, sliding her sunglasses into her hair.
“Fine,” I lied.
Because I saw Alden leaning against the upper railing, sunglasses on, arms crossed, tension coiled beneath his posture.
And Trace?
He was drifting towards the railing, nursing a glass of something dark—whiskey, maybe, breeze tugged at the hem of his shirt while he took a slow sip.
His head tilted slightly subtle, automatic. His grip tightened on the glass. A knuckle touch. A breath drawn too long.
And when he looked—
It was a slow, deliberate drag.
His gaze tracked the knot of my cover-up, down my bare legs, up again like I was something he shouldn’t touch but couldn’t stop studying.
He didn’t smile.
Didn’t speak.
Just exhaled—sharp, like the sight of me stung—then turned, taking his drink with him as he disappeared down to the lower deck.
I wasn’t going to let them break me today.
Rhett handed me a drink. “You need this more than anyone.”
“Accurate,” I muttered, sipping.
This wasn’t going to be just another ride. This was a fuse being lit.
The boat started to hum beneath our feet.
***
The water around us sparkled with secrets. My swimsuit clung—red and defiant.
Kane let out a low whistle. “Damn, Monroe. You planning on killing a man today or just collecting hearts?”
“I’ll let you know,” I said, sliding my sunglasses into place.
The others were already sprawled on towels and cushions with drinks in hand.
Alden’s fingers tapped against his glass in a steady rhythm. Rhett kept checking the horizon like he expected something to rise.
On the far side of the boat, I found Trace leaning against the rail, looking like a figure made of shadow and heat.
He peeled his shirt off in one fluid motion, muscles flexing, tattoos catching fire in the sunlight.
His sunglasses sat low on his nose, but he didn’t look away, just stood there, bare and burning, wanting me to see.
I sat beside Sloane, legs stretched long, the vodka lemonade too cold in my hand.
The girls were talking—lip gloss, gossip, pretending we were still normal. But the guys were quieter than usual.
Something unspoken was threading through us. A current that didn’t come from the ocean.
“Someone say something dumb before I jump overboard,” I said.
Kane smirked. “You look like sin incarnate, Scarlett.”
I turned to him slowly. “Thank you.”
But my voice didn’t match the joke. Not really.
The wind picked up. The boat rocked slightly as a seagull screeched high overhead like a warning.
I closed my eyes for a second too long.
And when I opened them, Trace was gone.
***
The sun was merciless.
It bounced off the lake in that too-bright, too-perfect way that made you want to close your eyes and stay still forever. The boat rocked gently beneath us, slow and steady, in on the secret—we didn’t want to leave.
Lena stretched across a lounge chair beside me, oversized sunglasses on, her pink sarong half-unwrapped, her legs impossibly tan. Sloane sat next to her in a rust-colored bikini that matched her attitude, sipping her mimosa like it was a weapon.
“Can’t believe this is our last full day,” she said, half-pouting. “Tomorrow it’s back to real life.”
Kane groaned dramatically from the deck. “I’m not. I’ve decided to live here. Y’all can fight me for the boat.”
“You don’t own the boat,” Rhett said, propped against the rail, shirtless and smirking.
“I spiritually own it,” Kane replied. “Big difference.”
I leaned back in my lounger, drink in hand, swimsuit cutting into my ribs just enough to remind me I looked good. My sheer cover-up caught the wind, brushing over my legs.
I felt reckless. Lazy. Dangerous.
Trace was in the shaded part of the deck, pretending he wasn’t tracking my every move. Dark shirt, darker sunglasses. He hadn’t said a word in over ten minutes.
Alden handed me a refill without speaking. His hair messy from the wind, as he sat beside me like he belonged there.
I didn’t stop him.
Lena snapped a picture of the group and grinned. “Okay, caption this.”
Rhett didn’t even look up. “Two men down, one woman standing.”
Everyone laughed.
But no one denied it.