“You will hear plenty from me as we go on this little adventure. But for now,” Julio circles one hand in the hair. “Let’s paaaarty!”
Music cranks up, replacing his voice over the speakers. Jimmy Buffett’sMargaritaville, what else? The guests are clapping, leaning over the railing, using their phones to take pictures and videos as though nothing’s amiss.
Courtney and Mrs. Grady are posing for one of the… paparazzi.
I glance around, blinking, like I’ve stepped into another world.
There’s no air-conditioned lounge, no canopy, not even proper seating—just a few sun-bleached plastic chairs bolted to the deck and a table with a sticky red cooler serving as the “bar.” Behind it, a girl who looks about fifteen opens a soda with her teeth.
What happened to my yacht?
And now… Captain Julio is singing backup for Jimmy Buffett—off-key, and painfully loud—and half the guests clap along.
Luna throws her head back, laughing. Josie is filming. The twins are dancing with Babs.
The entire bridal party is eating it up.
Meanwhile, I can feel sweat sliding down the back of my neck, and the deck is already too hot to touch.
“Beckett,”I hiss. “This isn’t the boat.”
“We’ll complain to the agency later,” he says. “For now, I don’t think we have much choice but to just go with it.”
In that moment, his voice is the only thing that feels sane. Because how is this even happening?
“Okay,” I say quietly. Because I don’t have a choice. I have to pretend I’m not mortified, horrified, at the direction this party just took.
Beckett doesn’t say anything. He just shoots me a glance, then gives my hand a quick squeeze, like he knows I’m quietly freaking out but can do this anyway.
And now, I’m pretending again.
Only this time, I’m not sure where the pretending ends, and where Beckett and I begin…
SALT AND PEACHES
ASHLEY
I’ve accepted it.
This isn’t the yacht I booked, let alone the one I dreamed of.
It’s loud, crowded, and the smell of gasoline is competing with the smell of tacos. When a flicker of seasickness threatens, I make my way toward the bow. Behind me, people are milling about, laughing and singing along to “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”
They seem… fine.
Up here, it’s quieter. The wind rushes over my face, and for the first time all day, I can almost breathe. The railing wobbles beneath my palms—of course it does—but I hold on anyway.
For the moment, I try to stop fighting the current.
To let it carry me.
Tay joins me, sunglasses perched on top of her head, the wind whipping her hair into her lip gloss, and in a not-at-all Tay-like gesture, she squeezes my hand.
“I should’ve known better than to order the peach margarita,” she says.
I slide her a wry glance. “Why?”
She snorts. “It was warm. And rimmed with salt.”
