Page 85 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Yeah. So am I.
“Hello, Gavin… Petra,” he says.
I squeak. Actually squeak. “Hey, Moneybags. Nice… outfit.”
“Glad you’re amused.” His lips curve into a subtle smirk.
Oh fuck nuggets. He smirked. At me. Shit. Why am I suddenly fifteen again and worried my crush knows I like him? What do I do? What do I say?
Brain cells, report for duty! I need at least one of you functioning.
Actually, scratch that. Don’t say anything. No talkie, no explode-y. Because you will fuck this up—that’s your superpower. You turn perfectly good moments into flaming garbage fires.
Fiona materializes. “Oh dear LORD, Bryce! What are you wearing? I honestly thought you were some homeless beach bum who stumbled onto the ship.”
Bryce shrugs. “I don’t claim to understand fashion. But Sebastian styled it specifically for yacht day. I believe it’s Versace… with Pip’s added inspiration.”
“Well, you know what they say about guys who wear Crocs,” I snort. “Big feet, huge di—dimensions.”
Did I just make a dick joke? To Bryce Sterling? While standing next to my brother?
Yes. Yes, I did.
Bryce’s eyes flash with barely hidden amusement, and I tumble deeper into my personal anxiety tornado.
Breaking news: My ovaries are barking like deranged seals.
Stop reading into it, Petra. He’s humoring you.This is Croc fashion banter, not a declaration of love.
Vagina:Sweetie, he wants to explore us like we’re the Mariana Trench—only wetter and more dangerous.
Me:I said no talking.
Fiona chirps, “Oh, if Sebastian approved it, then it’s groundbreaking. He’s never wrong.”
I catch Gavin’s detective eyes ping-ponging between Bryce and me as if he’s tracking evidence at a crime scene. My panic meter swells.
“Yeah, well, Sebastian’s track record isn’t exactly flawless,” I babble. “He warned me not to untie this bow contraption, or it’s gonna beboobs ahoy.”
Bryce’s eyes drop to the giant white bow covering my chest, and his pupils dilate.
This is either the mostmortifyingor the mostarousingmoment of my life.
DING DING DING!
The ship’s bell clangs.Thank God!
Nigel—Lord Britchybottom—Featherwick glides across the deck in his damn tuxedo, resembling a butler who’s been cryogenically frozen for centuries.How is he not melting? Maybe he’s an old-timey ghost? That would explain the wardrobe.
He raises one pristine gloved hand. “Before our imminent departure, Miss Muffy Von Cashmere the Second wishes to extend a personal maritime welcome aboard her floating estate,The Pawseidon.”
Miss Muffy emerges—the queen of the seven seas—holding her head high, the very picture of four-legged regality. White sunglasses are perched on her furry little snout.
Except.Oh my God.
She’s wearingmyoutfit.
A black swimsuit with the EXACT same white bow. She’s me. I’m her. We’re twins(minus theopposable thumbs).
