Still. It had something better.
Her.
So I made a move.
Called Tristan, told him I wanted to take the boat out that afternoon. “Invite the usual crew. Tell them we’ll drop anchor near Drift Point. Good volleyball stretch, decent sand, no lifeguards to call us out.”
He didn’t ask why.
Xavier brought the girls. The drinks. The speakers.
I brought the plan.
We set up the net. The coolers. The full-onscene.
And I waited.
Hoped.
Bet.
And then she showed.
Like gravity obeyed me.
Hair up, skin glowing, zero makeup, just that damn knot in her shirt and the don’t-give-a-shit energy that made every other girl there look like a rehearsal.
She didn’t evenlooksurprised.
She saw us, clocked the yacht, the setup, the volleyball court—and walked across the sand like we weren’t royalty.
And me?
I didn’t move.
Didn’t wave.
Didn’t say her name.
But I watched every step she took.
Because my plan worked.
And I wasn’t done yet.
I was losing it.
She wasn’t even doing anything—just sitting there, tanned legs stretched out on her towel, laughing with Shani, sipping her sad little can of sparkling whatever.
Not looking at me. Not reacting.
Not giving a damn.
And that? That flipped something in me.
I spiked the volleyball hard—too hard. It hit sand like a damn missile, bounced once, and nailed Garrett right in the chest. His drink exploded all over his brand-new club tee, white claws and lime and ego dripping down.
He looked up slowly.
