Chapter 2 #2
The boat waited. Other guests were settling into seats, some taking selfies with the sunset behind them.
“Go,” Patterson said. She’d also gotten out and now handed Britta her tote bag.
Martinez had grabbed her suitcase like a valet. Britta took it from him and walked toward the boat. Her flip-flops slapped against the dock. Her tote bag bounced against her hip.
A staff member offered his hand to help her board. She took it. Stepped down into the boat. Found a seat near the back where she could see everything and also be slightly less visible.
Martinez also came aboard and settled two seats away.
Way to look invisible. Sheesh.
The engine rumbled. The boat pulled away from the dock. Key West began to shrink behind them.
Okay, well, this might be better than she’d expected. And possibly, for three whole days, she might get to be just Britta.
Not Starlight. Not the president’s daughter. Not the security concern.
Just Britta White, attending a friend’s wedding.
Her phone buzzed.
Imani
DID YOU MAKE IT???
Britta
On the boat. Headed to the island. Dad approved distant surveillance.
Madeline
HE SAID YES?
Britta
He said yes.
Imani
I’m so happy for you I could cry.
Madeline
Don’t cry. You’ll make ME cry. This is a celebration.
Britta
It’s three days. Let’s not throw a parade yet.
Imani
Three days is HUGE. Three days is everything.
Britta
Three days is a start.
She pocketed her phone and watched Sunset Key grow larger. White-sand curving into torchlight, string lights strung between the palms. The kind of beach setting that looked too good to be real.
The boat docked. Staff waited with trays—champagne in real glasses, tropical drinks with umbrellas, that resort elegance that said this place breathed money.
Britta grabbed a champagne flute.
Other guests disembarked ahead of her. Couples. Families. Someone’s kid asking loudly whether there were sharks. Someone else laughing about luggage going to the wrong cottage.
She kept hold of her suitcase and ignored Martinez.
The path led up from the dock through lush tropical landscaping. Bougainvillea in explosions of pink. Hibiscus flowers the size of dinner plates. Palm fronds rustling in a breeze that smelled like salt and coconut sunscreen.
The main pavilion opened before her—high thatched roof, ceiling fans turning lazily, that open-air elegance where indoor and outdoor meshed.
And standing near the entrance, watching arrivals with barely contained excitement—
“Britta!”
Scarlett launched herself forward before Britta could fully process what was happening. Arms wrapped around her. Tight. Genuine. The kind of hug that said You’re here and I’m so glad and I was worried you wouldn’t make it.
“You came!” Scarlett pulled back, hands on Britta’s shoulders, grinning like Britta had just delivered the best wedding present possible. “I heard about the airport. Are you okay?”
“I’m—yeah. I’m fine. Just a misunderstanding with my security team.”
“A misunderstanding that ended with someone on the ground?”
Heat flooded Britta’s face. “How did you—”
“West is here. For the wedding.”
She stilled. Of course he was.
Because Britta’s weekend couldn’t just be a normal wedding with normal people. It had to include the man she’d lied to, gotten flattened by her own security detail, and then disappeared on.
“Is he—” Britta swallowed. “Is he okay?”
“Wounded pride. But yeah. He’s okay.” Scarlett squeezed her shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. West is good people. He understands.”
Yeah, right.
“Britta.” Another voice. Quieter. But carrying that particular intensity of someone who’d looked danger in the face and decided to run toward it instead of away.
Emberly. Six months ago, the super-secret bad-girl operator had saved Britta’s life. Taken down three armed men in the middle of a UN summit while Britta and two princesses had hidden behind an overturned table and tried not to scream.
Britta owed her everything.
Now the woman stood with arms crossed, wearing cargo pants and a tank top and that operative awareness that never fully turned off even on vacation. Her auburn hair had grown and was pulled back in a headband.
“Emberly.” Britta didn’t know what else to say. “You’re here.”
“Scarlett invited me.” She stepped closer. Dropped her voice. “You good?”
“I made it to Key West.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Britta met her eyes. Saw genuine concern there. Not the professional kind. The personal kind. The kind that said I saw you at your most terrified and I’m checking to make sure you’re okay now.
“I’m getting there,” Britta said honestly. “It’s been a day.”
“I heard. Airport incident. Does your father know that most of the guests are high-level elite-trained retired spec-operators?”
And as if to prove Emberly’s words, a man approached—tall, with short light-brown hair, and that quiet intensity that screamed military background and also betrayed that he was currently trying very hard to be on his best behavior.
His T-shirt was fitted. His cargo shorts had too many pockets.
His eyes tracked the area even as he smiled.
“I don’t think you two ever formally met. Steinbeck,” Emberly said, “this is Britta White. Britta, this is Steinbeck Kingston.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” Steinbeck said, offering his hand. His grip was firm but not aggressive. Professional. “Emberly says you kept your head during the UN incident. That’s not easy when people are shooting.”
“Emberly did all the hard work. I just didn’t scream.”
“Not screaming is underrated.”
“Right?” Emberly’s expression softened when she looked at him.
“Come on.” Scarlett linked her arm through Britta’s, steering her toward a group of women near the bar.
“You need to meet everyone. And then we need to get you changed because you look like you’ve been traveling all day—which you have—and then we’re going to the tiki bar and you’re going to drink something with an umbrella and pretend you’re just another guest.”
“I am just another guest.”
“Then let’s make sure everyone else knows that.”
The women near the bar turned as they approached. Three of them. All beautiful in that effortless way that came from being comfortable in your own skin and also possibly having really good genetics.
“Britta, this is RJ Newgate,” Scarlett said, gesturing to a woman with warm eyes and that maternal energy that made you want to tell her your problems. “Her husband York is part of the Caleb Group. He’s—”
“Around here somewhere,” RJ finished. “Probably with the guys talking about security protocols, even though we’re supposed to be on vacation.” She smiled. “It’s good to meet you. I heard you had an exciting arrival.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“Well, you can relax now,” said another woman. “The place is lousy with alpha males. Trust me when I say we’re safe.” She held out her hand. “I’m Coco Marshall. Wyatt’s wife. He’s the loud one over there with the hockey-player build.”
She pointed toward a group of men near the firepit. One of them—broad-shouldered—was gesturing wildly while telling a story that had the others laughing.
“He’s…enthusiastic,” Britta said.
“He’s a goalie. They’re all insane. Comes with the position.” Coco’s expression shifted. Gentler. “Look, if you need anything this weekend, we’ve got you. Okay? No judgment. No questions. Just…we’re here.”
Something hot and uncomfortable lodged in Britta’s throat. “Thank you.”
The third woman stepped forward—she held a baby on a carrier.
“I’m Glo Marshall. Tate’s wife. Used to sing country with Kelsey—Knox’s wife, you’ll meet her later—but now I mostly chase our oldest daughter around and try to convince her that flower-girl dresses should stay clean for more than thirty seconds. ”
“How’s that going?”
“Terribly. She’s three. Everything is a disaster and also the best thing that’s ever happened. Parenting is chaos.” She pressed a kiss to the baby’s head. “But perfect.”
“Come on.” RJ linked her arm through Britta’s, the group surrounding her in a way that felt protective but not suffocating. “Let’s get you checked in and settled. Your cottage is near ours. And then we’ll hit the tiki bar for dinner and you can meet the rest of the circus.”
They moved through the pavilion as a unit. Scarlett confirmed Britta’s reservation at the front desk—a private cottage, king bed, ocean view, all the resort amenities that came with destination weddings where the guest list was modest and the budget was not.
“The Marshalls rented them all, just in case…” Scarlett made a face.
“In case extra guests showed up?”
Scarlett just shrugged, mischief in her eyes.
“I’m glad you’re here. Get changed and I’ll meet you at dinner.”
A valet took Britta’s bag and led her to her cottage.
It sat right on the beach. French doors opening to a small patio with two chairs and a view of palm trees and ocean beyond.
Britta grabbed her suitcase and disappeared into the bathroom.
The shower called to her—rainfall head, expensive products, that promise of washing away travel and stress.
She let her hair air-dry and changed into a sundress she’d packed specifically for tonight—soft blue that made her eyes pop, flowing fabric that said “beach wedding” without trying too hard.
Delicate sandals. Hair down and wavy. She left off the makeup because why not?
She didn’t have to prove anything tonight.
She left on the necklace because of promises.
The path to the tiki hut wound through tropical landscaping, torches lighting the way. Music drifted on the breeze—steel drums, calypso rhythms.
The beachside bar opened before her. Thatched roof. Tables scattered in the sand. The firepit nearby with Adirondack chairs arranged in a circle. The ocean audible beyond—waves lapping, that endless rhythm that had started to seep inside her.
Breathe.