Page 46 of Without a Trace
Golden light stretched across the deck, softening everything. Water clung to our swimsuits in all the wrong—and right—ways. Someone turned up the music. Something sultry and low, a little too perfect.
Rhett moved through the group, handing out drinks. “Final yacht toast of the trip,” he announced. “Let’s not remember any of it.”
“Cheers to trauma,” Sloane said, raising her glass.
“To questionable decisions,” I added, clinking mine against hers.
“To Lena finally showing some skin,” Kane said, smirking.
Lena gasped, mock-offended. “I wore a bikini!”
“And we’re all grateful,” Rhett said, shameless.
Lena flipped him off but smiled. Her cheeks were flushed from the sun; red hair curled over one shoulder. For once, she wasn’t being quiet. She was alive in the glow—laughing, sipping her drink, leaning into Sloane’s side, head tipped back, soaking in the moment.
“You look hot,” I said, slinging an arm around her shoulders.
She rolled her eyes but leaned into me, her perfume soft and familiar. “You’re only saying that because you’re drunk.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true.” I nudged her. “We need more chaos from you. Blow something up. Seduce a stranger. Yell at a cloud.”
Lena giggled, but there was something sharp beneath it. Her smile flickered, eyes wide. “Maybe I’ll do something none of you see coming.”
I blinked. “That sounded ominous.”
She laughed again, lighter this time, nudging me back. “You’re insane.”
“Exactly,” I said.
Drink in hand, Trace stood at the far end of the deck, his shoulder pressed against the railing as if someone had anchored him there. Still. Coiled. The storm in him was barely contained, flickering just beneath the surface.
Alden sat on the bench beside me, his leg brushing mine—subtle, intentional. The contact grounded him.
Grabbing the speaker, Sloane flipped to something loud, dirty, and familiar.
The beat dropped, and I stood up on the seat, drunk on sun and adrenaline.
“Scarlett,” Lena hissed. “You’re gonna fall.”
“I’ll land hot.”
She covered her face, laughing. “You’re unwell.”
But she danced with me anyway.
And for a moment, we weren’t past or future.
Just now.
Just sun. Music. Skin. And fire.
Scarlett
Night fell slow, draping the lake in hush.
The air turned cool, raising goosebumps on my skin. We were all curled in the lounge area at the back of the yacht, wrapped in towels or sun-damp sweatshirts, our hair still wet, our bodies loose from too much sun and too many refills.
Sloane sat cross-legged beside me with a nearly empty glass of something pink and deceptively strong. Kane was sprawled on the cushion, limbs lose, grin careless, completely at ease with the chaos. Rhett had claimed the Bluetooth speaker and queued a playlist full of bass-heavy slow burns—moody and pulsing.
