Page 87 of Fireworks Flame
“I have to go to the harbor.” I reach to pull my purse from her arm, but she takes a step back, holding it away from me.
“Something’s wrong with Phoebe,” I say desperately.
Rather than respond, Elena begins to run. I follow after her.
“You can’t come,” I call behind her. “It might be dangerous.”
She doesn’t acknowledge me. There’s a taxi outside the hotel, and she manages to whip the back door open despite the mess of stuff in her arms. Sliding inside, she barks “Marina Del Rey harbor” at the driver. It’s a miracle that I make it inside the car before he hits the gas.
“What’s happening?” she asks as the driver lurches into traffic, cementing her inclusion in whatever this is.
“I don’t know.” Sunscreen stings my eyes, and my heart pounds in my chest. Whatishappening? “I’m worried, though. Phoebe wouldn’t ask for help unless it was bad.”
I think of the time we hiked to the Hollywood sign and she refused to let Mac carry her the rest of the way down after she got knocked off the path by an unleashed dog. We didn’t realize she’d fractured her ankle until the next day.
“We’re lucky we were so close,” Elena says. “We’ll be there in ten minutes. Whatever it is, it’s going to be fine.”
I try to smile at her, but my face feels frozen. If anything happens to Phoebe, I’ll never forgive myself. I lean forward in my seat for the rest of the ride, like my body is a rudder guiding the car. Miraculously, traffic is not terrible.
“You should stay here,” I tell Elena when the driver drops us off in the parking lot. Before the words are out, I begin to run, calling the rest out over my shoulder. “I don’t know what we’re walking into.”
Once again, Elena ignores me, following close on my heels. The orange and pinks of the slowly setting sun bounce off the gleaming white boats, making them look like they’re in danger of catching fire. My sandals slap against the dock as I run faster.
“Phoebe!” I shout her name as I draw near to the number she gave me, panting with relief that the slip is still occupied.
“Liv?” She appears at the edge of an upper deck, smiling down at me. With a champagne glass in her hand and a white dress that flutters in the wind, she looks like the kind of woman who’d own this two-story yacht, not be held hostage on it. “You made it! Come on up.”
Relief crashes over me, making my knees go weak, but I manage to scramble on board. Elena comes with me, our arms brushing against each other, sticky with sweat and sunscreen. Despite my lingering panic, I find myself pausing for a moment to take in the covered sitting area with its navy-blue cushioned bench seating and adorable wooden table.
“If this is some kind of prison,” Elena says, echoing my thoughts, “your friend could do worse.”
“Shh.” I put a finger to my lips. “She might be pretending to be okay because someone is watching her.”
Elena’s eyes widen, at the same moment I notice the slight movement beneath me. With the smoothness of butter, the vessel eases forward, slipping away from the dock and into the deep, vast ocean. A flare of panic shoots through me.
We’re trapped.
CHAPTER 28
Stealthily, Elena and I make our way to the upper deck. To my shock, Phoebe isn’t climbing the rail, preparing to leap overboard. Instead, she’s leaning against the console, chatting with a man behind the captain’s wheel. Rather than having a rope tied around her ankles like I imagined she might, she has a white flower pinned in her hair.
“Stop the boat!” I demand, using my most imposing voice.
“It’s okay.” Phoebe laughs and holds out her champagne, as if I might like to toast to our kidnapping instead of stop it. “I’m sorry if I freaked you out. I just wanted to get you here quickly.”
“You...” I trail off, unable to comprehend the idea that I’ve been so terrified for nothing. “I...”
“Are you mad?” Phoebe looks ruffled for the briefest moment but quickly shakes it off. “Well, you can’t be. Because it’s my day. I’m the bride.”
I gape at her, and she lifts her other hand so they’re both in the air.
“We’re getting married!” She beams.
“You’re...” I trail off again. It’s possible my brain has not made it to sea with us and is sunbathing somewhere back on dry land. Uncomprehendingly, I look back and forth between her and the broad-shouldered man glancing back over his shoulder with a rakish smile. “Do you evenknowthis guy?”
There’s nothing discernibly wrong with him. He’s nice to look at, and he does seem capable of handling a boat, which I imagine is a nice quality to have in a husband. But I’ve never met him before. More importantly, he’s not Mac.
“Connor Collins,” he says. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
