35. Scarlett
Scarlett
N ight fell slow, draping the lake in hush.
The air turned cool, raising goosebumps on my skin. We were all curled in the lounge area at the back of the yacht, wrapped in towels or sun-damp sweatshirts, our hair still wet, our bodies loose from too much sun and too many refills.
Sloane sat cross-legged beside me with a nearly empty glass of something pink and deceptively strong.
Kane was sprawled on the cushion, limbs lose, grin careless, completely at ease with the chaos.
Rhett had claimed the Bluetooth speaker and queued a playlist full of bass-heavy slow burns—moody and pulsing.
“Alright,” Sloane said, lifting her drink. “We need rules. Let’s play something real.”
“Never Have I Ever?” Lena offered.
“Too safe,” I said. “Let’s do Most Likely To .”
A few groaned, a few laughed.
“I like it,” Kane said. “High potential for emotional damage.”
We went around in a loose, lazy circle. Most likely to sleep through a fire alarm—Rhett. Most likely to accidentally marry someone in Vegas—me—rude but fair. Most likely to join a cult—Lena, to her horror.
Then someone—Rhett, I think—
“Most likely to catch feelings and never admit it.”
Sloane’s hand hovered, hesitating. Rhett looked over at me. No one reached for their drinks until I lifted my glass and took a slow sip.
Sloane followed.
Then Trace. Quietly.
Alden sat back, shoulders squared. Daring me to push.
I didn’t look at any of them.
Lena tried to change the subject, but the mood had already shifted.
The next round came with more edge. More bite. More glances that lingered too long. Everything cracked a little deeper.
I was tipsy and flushed and couldn’t remember the last time I felt so seen and so completely invisible all at once.
But I kept smiling.
Because what else was I supposed to do?
The music thumped. Wind threading through the deck, and somewhere deep inside, something cracked.
We didn’t stop.
The drinks kept coming, the circle stayed close. The questions got sharper. It was that perfect storm of being sun-tired and wine-loose, our guards slipping with every sarcastic jab and loaded look.
“Most likely to disappear without telling anyone,” Kane said, grinning like a devil.
Everyone looked at Trace. He didn’t flinch.
Sloane drank.
So, did I.
“Wow,” Rhett muttered. “Two for two.”
“Some of us like mystery,” I said, flipping my hair over one shoulder.
Kane leaned in. “Some of us like sabotage.”
That got a laugh—too loud, too real.
Lena sat quietly, sipping from her cup, cheeks pink.
Sloane turned to me. “Okay. Your turn. Go for blood.”
I raised my glass, slow. “Most likely to fall for the wrong person. Again.”
This time, Alden drank.
So did Trace.
The silence that followed wasn’t accidental.
Kane tried to play it off, tossing a handful of peanuts across the table. “Jesus. This is getting dark.”
“It’s getting honest,” I said.
I was still smiling, but my pulse was a mess.
Trace set his drink down. “What’s your type, Scarlett?”
His voice was quiet—measured—but every syllable carried weight.
The group hushed as I leaned back, stretching my legs, letting the hem of my sweatshirt ride up just enough.
“Loyal,” I said.
Trace pressed his lips into a hard line.
“Patient,” I added.
Alden’s eyes flickered to the side.
“Dangerous,” I finished.
No one spoke.
Then I took a sip like none of it meant anything.
But it did.
It always did.
I could feel it now—the wrongness, the rightness. The way they both lived under my skin.