Page 1 of Stranded

Prologue

RONAN

“This isthe last trip of the night,” the skipper’s voice crackles over the tinny intercom. His eyes land on me as he pointedly adds, “I hope nobody’s here by accident.”

The passengers around us chuckle, and my cheeks burn with defiance. I fold my arms and stare right back at him.

They’re not wrong. I couldn’t stand out more if I tried.

Everyone else is dressed like they’re hoping to escape the day-to-day and discover their soul’s purpose on Maple Island. They’re heading to the campground carrying tents, picnic coolers, camping chairs, hiking boots—you name it, they’ve got it.

And then there’s me.

I’m wearing black, faux leather short-shorts, a sheer, glittery gold top, and black sneakers. At the last moment, I threw on a hoodie—black, hand-detailed in a pattern of gold fans and dots.

Where I’m going, I won’t need more than that.

Ooh, that’s cold!

I shiver as a breeze blows in from the harbour, right across the back of my neck. It might still be summer, but the sun is setting earlier and earlier as August draws to a close. There’s a nip in the air.

The skipper’s brows creep toward his hairline, and I blush as I zip up my hoodie, then tuck my hands back into the sleeves.

After a long pause, the skipper shrugs and turns away. “Keep everything safe and secure, please, folks,” he shouts over the engine as he works on the ferry ropes. “Especially tents and stealthy brown-bagged bottles.”

A sigh of relief rushes from my lungs as I tune him out and stare across the water.

It’s not like I’m ashamed.

Grindr is a perfectly natural part of human existence. Humans wouldn’t have evolved thumbs if they didn’t want horny, dumb young guys to use them to do crazy things.

Like sayingyeswhen a guy I’ve been texting for a day invites me to join him for a hot night under the stars.

After the last couple of days, there’s nothing I need more than a night of mindless fun. Otherwise, I’ll just keep replaying it in my mind every time I try to close my eyes.

Family dinner, the forced conversation, the careful pause, and finally… the ultimatum.

Improve my grades by the end of the semester, or else they won’t pay for the January semester.

Without it, I can’t get my BA in Fashion Design. I’ll probably have to follow in my brothers’ dress shoe-shaped footprints… all the way to the family accounting firm.

They told me there’s a job waiting for me, but I already know it’ll be something that sucks the creative life force right out of me. I’ll have to put on a badly-fitted suit for a job I haven’t earned, pushing papers I don’t understand… and it gets worse.

I’ll be cursed with enough knowledge to understand why the suits fit so badly.

Okay, fine… I could quietly tailor them myself. The point is, the whole premise flies in the face of everything I’ve ever designed for—or fought for, orlivedfor.

I’ve been styling outfits from the day I could walk in my mom’s high heels. I altered everything in sight until my family started hiding their clothes and taking me to Value Village for sacrificial clothing.

Everyone knows this is what I was born to do; they just don’t believe I’m good enough.

But I know better.

I can do anything I want—and I’m starting with this nameless guy. I’m gonna do him all damn night, thank you very much.

Then I’ll figure out how to put together my first mini-collection, earn my way back into the good graces of the infamous Professor Meyer, and get the best work experience placement of all.

XX Gracieux.

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