The sea is an impossible turquoise, the sky a cloudless blue dome. It’s like someone dropped a billionaire’s playground into a postcard.
It’s beautiful—and I don’t want to wake up from this dream.
“Jane!”
I turn. Barbie waves from the shaded lounge area, patting the seat beside her with the kind of smile that sayswe need to talk about your performance metrics.
Wakey, wakey.
I weave through the beautiful people, dodging a waiter with a tray of something that involves edible gold, and drop into the seat beside her.
"You're not trying hard enough," she says as she sweeps in with an air kiss to establish my plus-one status to the rest on board.
"Good morning to you too."
"Blake barely noticed you at breakfast."
"Blake was sitting with Natalie at their bridal table. It would've been weird if—"
"Jane!” I hear my name again.
“Come settle a bet for us!” Blake’s voice carries easily, confident, practiced.
Every muscle in my body locks up.This is it. Natural interaction. Organic conversation. Do not sprint in the opposite direction.
Barbie gives my hand a squeeze. Not comforting. Directive.Ready. Camera. Action.
I stand. Smooth my dress. Channel my bestDevil Wears Pradapower-walk energy.
Blake’s circle opens to let me in.
He’s in swim trunks and an unbuttoned linen shirt, all golden tan and easy confidence. Objectively handsome. Subjectively, my skin does not approve.
“Jane,” he says warmly, like we’re old friends. “You seem like a woman of culture.”
“I’m a woman of whatever you think I am.”
Okay. That came out better than expected. Casual. Adaptable. Mildly mysterious. Points for delivery.
The men laugh. Blake’s smile widens.
“Champagne versus whiskey,” he says. “Which is the superior social lubricant?”
Softball. Easy in. Flirt. Eye contact. Light touch. Execute.
“Depends,” I say. “Are we lubricating toward good decisions or interesting stories?”
Nailed it. Clever without being try-hard. Someone write that down.
More laughter. Blake steps closer.
“I like the way you think.” His voice drops, intimate despite the crowd. “Most people here are so busy saying the right thing, they forget to say anything interesting.”
“Well,” I say lightly, “I’ve never been accused of subtlety.”
“No,” he agrees. His gaze slides down my one-piece swimsuit, then back up. Slow. Deliberate. Appreciative. “You definitely haven’t.”
My stomach tightens. I’m wearing the most conservative red swimsuit Serenella had, plus a breezy white cover-up. Surrounded by golden, bikini-clad yacht goddesses, I might as well be wrapped in a beach towel and a prayer… and it still feels like too little under his stare.
