Page 9 of Forking the Billionaire

I took a sip. Cinnamon and nutmeg bubbles danced over my tongue, with notes of pumpkin and apple. It was a divine sparkling cider.

I tipped back the glass and claimed a second.

Wake up!

I shot upright, heart racing, waking to bright morning light pouring through the curtains. I was in my bed, in my beach bungalow in Calypso Caribella, sadly interrupted from my dream.

I shook the warm giddy feeling from my chest.

The costume party was the absolute most fun I’d ever had in my life, which made even thinking about it dangerous. It was a reminder of just how out of control I could be if I let myself. It scared me what kind of person lurked deep down inside of me.

I blew out a breath and collapsed onto the mattress. My heart still thumped like a rabbit’s foot against my ribs, even as I told myself to let go of what happened. I stared up at the ceiling, at the slowly turning fan blades that looked like bleached palm fronds.

It was over. The dream, the reliving of First Contact—done. Except with a cursed brain like mine, nothing was ever really forgotten. Every single detail I recorded stayed with me for freaking ever, no matter how much safer it would be to forget.

I clutched my pillow to my chest and rolled over to check the clock.

Nine twenty-four.

Crap on a cracker. I was late.

Today was the big day. Gabe was coming, and I needed to leave ten minutes ago to greet him at the docks.

I flung off the covers and popped out of bed. The dress at the top of my slightly-worn pile on the nightstand looked clean enough. I gave it a sniff—old crab, jerk spice, and a heavy dose of hot dog breath. With a cringe and a gag, I dropped the stank dress on the floor and tested another from the other side of the pile.

The second dress only held a dash of nasty, which would have to do. I sprayed it with a good dose of strawberry watermelon body spray to cover the odor. Then I slapped a quick layer of lipstick over my pout, placed a big sun hat on my head to hide my clown-fro mess of hair, and jammed a slice of cinnamon swirl bread between my teeth on my way out the door.

There were cars on the island for traveling between the main resort area and the more remote areas, like the cliffs, Turtle Beach, and the tiny village. But most people walked just about everywhere. Loads of meandering vacationers were pretty much always standing in the way.

Fortunately, I had a secret weapon in my arsenal.

Even as I chomped on my breakfast, I raced at warp speed on my skateboard, weaving through foot traffic and startling a few unsuspecting human obstacles.

On the other side of the resort, the small field by the docks was mostly empty, not yet filled with newly arrived guests. Ziggy and the Zags played a cheerful welcome ditty on a small stage off to the side. Resort staff waited, watching the docks.

My lungs and calves burned. A clammy, grimy sheen clung to my skin. Whew, I’d made it. The anxious knot twisting in my guts immediately overpowered the fleeting sense of relief.

I set my skateboard in the grass and made my way toward the docks. Between the trees and the welcome crew, I spotted the small boats approaching the island.

I stepped up next to Stan, the head of hospitality at the resort. He was pretty much the Frenchest looking non-Frenchman I’d ever seen. If you Googled “French guy” and the first image that came up was tall, pale, had black hair and a thin mustache, a red ascot, and a speech bubble over his head that read “oui, oui!”andhe was holding a baguette—that was Stan, sans-baguette.

He was an island native, and had never been to Europe.

“Good morning, Esme.” Stan twisted his thin finger in the curl at the end of his mustache. “I don’t usually see you at the welcome ceremonies.”

“I’m expecting someone. Multiple someones, actually.” I scanned the boats for familiar faces but palm fronds dangled in the way. “My brother’s getting married.”

“What joyous news.” His gentle smile dropped slightly as he looked me over.

“Yep, totally,” I said, practicing my best beaming grin.

I could feel his attention linger, but I ignored him and turned that megawatt grin on the first boat that pulled up to the shore.

Almost immediately, I spotted Layana with her gorgeous, raven-black hair. Except…she didn’t look quite like I remembered. And there were three of her.

As I approached the Layana triplets with their big sunglasses and regal cheekbones, I began spotting differences between them. They were sisters. And none of them was actually Layana.

With them were three people I recognized fromWhat the What?, the reality show that made Layana famous—Morgan, Glitter, and Chester.

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