Page 80 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Well.
This is awkward.
“Listen up, overdressed billionaire. Either drink this or die dramatically. Your call.”
I weakly raise a finger. “Water, please.”
She huffs, leans down, and unscrews her travel bottle, shoving it at me like hydration is a personal insult. I drink it down in three gulps.
“In my defense, your mouth was making very sexy emergency noises.”
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t move. I’m going for help. And don’t kiss anything while I’m gone.”
Easy for her to say. She gets to strut off, while I’m left whispering sweet nothings to my overly enthusiastic erection and still convinced she moaned into my mouth on purpose.
That kiss lit a fuse I can’t put out. But unless I want to blow up everything with Gavin… I need to find a damn fire extinguisher.
CHAPTER TEN
PETRA
GROUP CHAT: CPK FOREVER
Me:Quick poll: Does it still count as cheating if the guy kissing you was hallucinating from heatstroke?
Cam:Let me guess. Mr. tall, blond, and financially irresponsible with his mouth?
Katie:WHAT?! Bryce kissed you?
Cam:Did his girlfriend fall into a convenient coma or…?
Me:I SAVED HIS LIFE, and this is how he repays me—by making me an accessory to infidelity.
Katie:Was it hot?
Me:Fucking incredible.
Cam:Hmm. Maybe what happens in the jungle stays in thejungle?
YACHT DAY ENSEMBLE(Dolce & Gabbana Maritime Collection)
To Miss Brinkman, my reluctant protege,
Today, you embark on a nautical journey. The black plunging one-piece features dramatic white bow—DO NOT untie it unless you fancy yourself as the ship’s entertainment. The midnight sheer cover-up and wide-leg trousers will flutter elegantly in the ocean breeze, assuming you don’t get tangled and fall overboard. Your accessories include 1) a sun hat large enough to eclipse the moon and 2) sunglasses that would make Jackie Kennedy’s ghost jealous. Don’t remove the hat. It is doing most of the work to distract from your personality.
—With dwindling faith, Sebastian Bellini, Fashion Emergency Responder
“Yacht day,” I mutter, staring at my reflection. “I look like a widow who poisoned her husband with a martini and then cried at the funeral to throw people off the scent.”
I adjust the bow again. It somehow grew twenty percent in the last sixty seconds.
Is it too much to ask for an easy breezy afternoon of margaritas on the beach? No yachts. No billionaires. No tiny swan-shaped sandwiches.
I sigh and reach for my phone, scrolling through old photos until I find it—the pic of Katie, Cam, and me, sunburned and grinning beneath a plastic Corona umbrella.
It was spring break, sophomore year. We scraped together enough cash for a cheap motel in Cabo. Katie spent the week finding(andscheduling)free excursions, while Cam filmed literally everything, determined to document our “epic poor girl” adventure.
On our last night, we spotted a massive yacht anchored offshore. Young, drunk, and spectacularly stupid, we decided to crash the party. We didn’t get far—security stopped us before we even touched the gangplank. So, we ended up on the beach passing around a bottle of cheap tequila and declaring it the best vacation of our lives. And honestly?It was.
