Page 42 of Without a Trace
Kane was already halfway through a cinnamon roll when he smiled. “So… yacht this afternoon?”
The kitchen stilled for a second.
“A what?” I asked, blinking.
“A yacht,” he repeated, mouth full. “Like a big-ass, floating rich guy fantasy. Trace pulled some strings.”
I turned to look at Trace, still nursing a black coffee and pretending to be part of the wallpaper.
“You chartered a yacht?” I asked, half-laughing.
He shrugged. “I figured we could use a day on the water.”
Kane clapped once. “See? You’re welcome.”
Sloane snorted. “You did nothing.”
Lena perked up. “Okay, but what are we wearing? This feels like a dress-up situation.”
“It’s a yacht,” I said. “It’s always a dress-up situation.”
Sloane grabbed my arm. “Let’s go raid our bags.”
Upstairs, the energy changed.
The sun was pouring through the windows, our coffees forgotten, music playing low from Lena’s phone. Swimsuits were flung across beds, cover-ups debated, and lip gloss reapplied with the seriousness of a military op.
I found the one I was looking for tucked at the bottom of my bag.
Red. High-cut. Strappy.
Loud. Bolder. Hungrier.
I added a sheer, see-through cover-up that tied at the waist and left little to the imagination.
Sloane whistled. “Jesus.”
Lena grinned. “Trace is gonna have an aneurysm.”
“That’s the point,” I muttered, running a brush through my hair.
The girls scattered to touch up their makeup, and I stepped out into the hall to grab earrings from my overnight bag pausing near the landing.
“…I said we don’t move yet,” Trace said, his voice low, clipped.
A pause.
“I don’t care what Zeke thinks. I’ll handle it.”
I froze.
Another beat of silence. Then the front door opened. Closed.
When I peeked over the stair rail, Trace was gone.
I slipped back into the room, heart thudding too fast.
Lena held up a pair of gold hoops. “These or the sparkles?”
