by Maren Moore
Apparently, the vendor Holly is working with wanted a sea-side-styled wedding shoot featuring this yacht. It all seems so grandiose to me, but I can see in Holly's eyes how much this means to her, so I’m putty in her well-played hands.
And let's be real, what else do I have to do? I’ve been at home in my pajamas, eating ice cream on the couch and binge-watching New Girl. Such an exciting life I live.
"Because you're my best friend and you love me," she sing-songs, doing a whirl around the spacious room below deck and sighing when she sees the ceiling lined with mirrors as well. "We totally have to do some shots in this room. It screams ‘wild and uninhibited.’"
My eyebrows furrow with genuine confusion, "It does? Speaking of...Where is this groom I'm supposed to be photographed with?"
Her eyes dart to mine, and she busies herself with her camera. "So, we're going to go ahead and sail out, and he'll meet us there in a smaller boat. There was a small hang up, and we still have to finish getting you ready anyway."
"Ooooookay," I quip, the assistant pulling even tighter on the corset strings. As much as I feel like I'm stuffed into this size four, as I eye myself in the mirror, I can't help but notice how it flatters my body. It's tight as a glove and definitely constricting my breathing, but it hugs my hips in all the right places. It’s a mermaid fit, so my hips are prominent and my waist tiny from the corset.
"You look hot as fuck," Holly breathes, her eyes lighting up. "This is going to be awesome!"
The assistant behind me gives her a look but scurries off without another word. Suddenly, the yacht lurches, and I realize we must be moving.
"And we're off!"
My stomach turns, partially from the dress and partially from the sudden rocking of the boat. Even what I'm sure is a million-dollar yacht isn’t beyond the uneven movements of a boat as it heads out to sea.
"Now, time for makeup," Holly says, holding up the oversized sack of makeup she's brought from home.
"Joy," I mutter, then fall into the chair she's graciously moved behind me. The movement is awkward and more of a flop, since I can't exactly bend at the waist. Every second I spend in this room below deck, I'm getting more nervous and anxious about this shoot with a stranger.
Holly spends the next 20 minutes or so putting makeup on me, and when she's done and turns me to face the mirrors, my jaw drops. I look...beautiful. For the first time since I had my heart broken and ripped to pieces, I feel like myself. My eyes are bright blue, vibrant under the neutral shadows on my eyelids. They're framed with the thick, black lashes she's glued on, making me look demure and seductive without even trying. I'm shocked.
"Holy shit, Soph, you look amazing. The dress, the makeup, the hair. All of it."
I swallow thickly, forcing down the body shaming retort that threatens to spill from my lips out of habit—a habit I only recently seem to have formed. I no longer felt good enough, for myself or anyone else. That's why men cheat, right? Because they find a younger, hotter version that you’ll never be.
"Soph?" Holly says, breaking through my thoughts.
"Yeah, sorry. I was in my head. It looks amazing, Hol, thank you."
My voice is sincere, and tears threaten to spill over my freshly made-up face. Breathe, Soph, now is not the time to lose your shit.
"Okay, so we should be getting close to our destination. I'm going to go up and check in. Stay here, and I'll be right back!"
Seconds later, she's gone, up the winding stairs that lead to the deck. Well, okay. Once I'm alone, I look around the room she's left me in. It's obviously the master suite of the yacht and coincidentally bigger than my entire apartment. Okay, maybe not, but it definitely comes close. The mirrors on the ceiling do give it a certain...vibe. It seems like the perfect place for hot, sweaty sex now that I think about it.
Too bad it's me and Bob for life. He's not all that bad, but I think it may be time for an upgrade.
I hear shuffling on the deck, followed by the sound of an engine. It must be my groom to be arriving, and whoever dropped him off leaving. I pick my phone up from the nearby table and open social media, scrolling and waiting patiently for Holly to come back and help me up the stairs in this monstrous dress.
Five minutes turns into ten...then twenty, and then forty minutes. My back aches from the awkward position I've been in, so I stand and stretch my arms.
Where is Holly? It's been forever.
I walk around the room, thankful that the dress seems to have stretched ever so slightly in the forty minutes I was sitting. I can breathe just a tiny bit easier now. I trail my fingers over the satin sheets on the bed. Holy shit, sleeping on that would be like sleeping on a cloud of cotton. I make it to the stairs and peer up at the cracked door above.
Fuck it. I've been down here forever. Gathering the train of the dress, I pull the stilettoes off my feet, toss them to the ground next to the stairs, and slowly make my way up each step. The dress is so tight around my legs I can hardly step up with each ascending stair.
Jesus, how do people wear these dresses? I can't imagine getting married in front of hundreds of people and having to be stuffed into this thing for hours. Talk about a literal can of busted biscuits, because the second my ass tried to drop it like it was hot on that dance floor, everyone would get a view of these biscuits. Literally.
I finally make it to the door and thrust it open, almost losing my footing, but thankfully righting myself just before I fall against the wall. The sun is bright and beaming down. I feel its warm kiss on the tops of my shoulders, which are on full display. I don't see anyone on deck—not Holly, not a captain…no one. It looks almost...deserted.
Now I'm nervous. Did something happen? Were we pirated? My mind immediately flashes to Pirates of the Caribbean and a delicious Johnny Depp, and then I realize how utterly ridiculous that sounds. But as I walk across the wooden deck, I see no one.
What the hell? Where is Holly?
A noise behind me makes me whip around, as quick as I can in this sheath, that is, and to my absolute surprise, I'm face to face with Hayes. Who just so happens to be wearing a tux that seems like it was designed perfectly to fit his body.
Then, it dawns on me. He looks just as surprised to see me.
Oh no. Oh no no no no.
I groan before cutting him with my eyes, "Please tell me that Holly did not talk you into this and that somehow you just ended up on the wrong boat."
His handsome face erupts into a look of confusion, "No...but Scott did."
Great. This is just great.
I leave Hayes standing there to search the rest of the boat, and low and behold it is deserted. Not a passenger in sight, except myself and the person I may just end up pushing overboard and pretending he was never here in the first place.
Hayes walks up as I flop onto the outer deck bench and run my hands through my hair.
"What's going on? Where is the photographer?" he asks me.
I look up at him, determined not to let my eyes drift down his body to see the way his tailored suit hugs every muscle in a way that should honestly be illegal.
I refuse.
"There is no photographer, Hayes." I mutter. I can't believe I let her ass talk me into this, only to have her pull one over on us both. Easily.
"What do you mean?"
He looks out at the ocean surrounding us, and there's nothing in sight. We're so far out to sea that you can't even see the shoreline. The wind kicks up, and I see a piece of paper taped to the cockpit, blowing with the breeze.
I walk over to it and rip it off, recognizing Holly's messy scrawl.
Soph & Hayes,
By now, you've probably realized that you're stuck. Together. On this yacht. For the next twenty-four hours.
Call it...intuition, but Scott and I both realize that you two have "something" to work through, and being the great friends that we are...we pushed it along.
Don't worry: You’re anchored in a safe spot (sorry, but no keys), and there's enough food and wate
r for a week. Lots of wine and bourbon too.
We'll see you tomorrow night, and hopefully by then you two have talked—or made use of those mirrors—and we can all breathe easier.
Sorry, but not sorry at all.
XOXO Holly and Scott.
Oh my god. When I get off this boat, I am going to murder her. Literally, I'm going to kill her. Lifelong friendship right down the drain.
This is ten times worse than what I thought.
Trapped on a yacht in the middle of the ocean with...Hayes?
I shove the letter into his chest and brush past him to create as much space as I can between us.
"Well, Hayes, I know your brain is small and somewhat damaged from all of the hits you've taken, but it looks like our friends just parent-trapped us."
His brow furrows in confusion, "They what?" he asks, before scanning the now crumpled letter from our no good, backstabbing friends.
"Goddamnit," he mutters, crumpling the letter and tossing it in front of him.
"Don't worry; I'm just as excited as you are."
I'd rather be face to face with my cheating, asshole ex-fiancé than be stuck on this boat with Hayes and his astronomical ego. The thought makes my stomach clench. And because I’m currently avoiding emotions, I’m not ready to decipher what that means.
"I knew he was up to something. Damnit," he says, undoing the bowtie at his neck with fervor and flopping down onto the bench seat I just stood from.
"So, what…are we just stranded here?" I screech, the harsh reality of our situation settling over me.
"What would you like me to do, St. James? They have the keys, and I have no phone. What about you?"
My eyes widen when it dawns on me that my phone is on 2% from my forty-five minutes of scrolling and the fact that I passed out on the couch after my wine, ice cream, and New Girl binge last night.
Damnit.
"It's dead."
He scoffs, "Of course it is. Looks like we're stuck for the next twenty-four hours, and unless you wanna hop over the side and swim your way to shore, we're not going anywhere." He clenches his jaw, and I watch the muscles tighten as he grits his teeth together. Obviously, Hayes wants nothing to do with me, and the feeling is mutual.
"No, but I'd love to shove you overboard and spend the next twenty-four hours sunbathing and drinking wine. Don't tempt me."
"Right, see how far you get in that dress. What did they do, paint it on you?” His eyes drag down my body in a slow perusal. I don't see a hint of appreciation…mostly just annoyance.
Screw him. I look damn good in this dress. I know his taste is more...classless.
"Right, I forget seeing a woman in a wedding dress opposite you is what, like your biggest fear? Scared of commitment and all of that, right Hayes? The great Hayes Davis, too scared to do anything but shove his hockey stick into puck bunnies."
His eyes harden, "Keeping up with me, St. James? You seem to know a lot about my life for claiming to hate me as much as you do."
I stand abruptly, finished with the bickering between us. My nerves are shot, and now that I'm actually not going to be using this dress, I need out of it.
The sun is beginning to set, and my stomach rumbles as if on a timer, reminding me that I haven't eaten anything since lunch. If I'm going to get off this boat without losing my mind or going to prison for murder, I need all the wine I can get my hands on.
"Going so soon?" Hayes quips, rising as I do and walking over to stand toe to toe with me. He towers over me, and I have to crane my neck to see him. The height difference between us is ridiculous—not that I had never noticed prior to now.
"Anywhere that you aren't. It's a big yacht. I'm sure there's plenty of room for us to completely avoid each other." I cross my arms, and his eyes drop to my chest for a brief moment before he drags them back to stare into my eyes.
"Do what you want, St. James, but I'm getting drunk. Going to have to since I’ve got to deal with you for the next twenty-four hours."
He brushes past me, leaving me standing on the deck with my mouth agape. Oh, to deal with me?
I'm seething. Starving. And out of options.
Whether I like it or not, I’m stuck with Hayes for the next twenty-four hours, unless I wanted to risk getting eaten by a shark and attempt to swim back to shore.
Which might not be that bad of an idea at this point....
Six
Hayes
Fuck me.
Worst case scenario is me in the same room as Sophia for an extended period of time. This?
Stranded in the middle of the goddamn ocean for the next twenty-four hours?
Catastrophic.
Fuck. I drag my hand down my face in frustration as I go in search of a bottle of bourbon. I need a drink, and I need off this damn boat. I need a damn ocean between Sophia St. James and me. I find the kitchen below deck through the door that she apparently just emerged from. Taking a look through the rooms, I see a decent-sized kitchen, a massive bedroom, and a bathroom—complete with a shower that's the size of most small bedrooms. In different circumstances, I'd enjoy being stranded on a yacht like this, but as it happens, I'm stranded with a thorn the size of Canada poking into my side.
The mouth on her. Every time she opens it, I have to clench my fists at my side so I don't throw her over my lap and spank her ass until it's as red as her face gets when she's angry. Infuriating, hard-headed, stubborn woman. She has enough attitude to last a fucking lifetime, and she can't open her mouth without trying to piss me off with a low blow.
Whatever her issue is with me, it has only gotten worse over time.
I find the bourbon on a shelf right next to the stainless steel fridge. The crystal canister has glasses neatly placed next to it, and I can't pour it fast enough. I pour two fingers and throw them back, not bothering to savor the flavor.
I wasn't kidding when I said the only way we're both making it off this boat is if I can drink myself to sleep so I don't have to listen to her mouth. If not, I’m surely going to throw her ass overboard for fish food.
Fuck, now I'm picturing her ass in that dress. It hugs her body so tightly I can make out the two dimples at the base of her spine, right above the delectable globes that I want to sink my teeth into. After I spank the attitude out of her.
The door slamming behind me thankfully interrupts my train of thought. And here comes Sophia, stomping towards me.
"Look, let's make this as pain free and easy as possible. You stay on your side of the boat, and I'll stay on mine."
I grin and toss back another two fingers of bourbon, letting the burn resonate this time. "Gonna be a little hard to do that, St. James. Only one bed." I nod towards the bed beside her. Her eyes dart to the bed and back to me twice before she speaks.
"Hell no. You're sleeping on the floor."
"Who said anything about sleeping?" I ask.
She screeches before grabbing the closest thing to her, which happens to be a curling iron, and chunking it at my head. I duck in the nick of time, and it falls to the floor behind me with a loud clank.
"Hmm, might wanna work on your aim. A little too far to the left. I’m good with making it into tight holes; want a lesson?" I grin and brush past her.
"Just stay the hell out of my way, Hayes. Go upstairs and do...anything but annoy me."
I don't respond, climbing the stairs that lead back to the deck and letting the door slam shut behind me.
"Oh my god, you are ridiculous. That is not the Little Dipper, that's a damn airplane, Hayes. It's blinking!" Sophia cries, collapsing into a fit of drunken giggles next to me on the upper deck as we watch the stars.
How we got here...well, let's just say once the liquor started to flow, Sophia St. James became a woman I'd never met. Fun, uninhibited, carefree. I had to catch her before she went overboard when a wave hit while she stood too close to the side.
"You need your eyes checked, St. James. That is a fucking star."
Her eyes roll, and she drops back
down from her elbows to her back while she stares at a sky that's bright with stars.
"I hate you a little less right now," she whispers, her voice so low I almost don't hear her.
I scoff, not taking my eyes off the view, even though I'm desperate to see her eyes, "And that brings me to one of the burning questions I’ve been dying to know the answer to for the past ten years. Why does Sophia St. James hate me in the first place?"
"You're a man-whore, and you're single-handedly responsible for my low self-esteem in high school."
"Me?" I ask, sitting up. Her blonde hair falls in wisps around her face, free from the curly updo that she started with. She's fucking gorgeous, even if she's the most annoying woman I've ever met. Right now, drunk as a fucking skunk, she's...tolerable.
For now.
It's her turn to scoff, "Psh, like you don't remember. Can we not go down memory lane? I'd rather throw myself into the ocean. Thanks." She rises, wobbling, and I have to reach my hand out to steady her. My hand grips her thigh, and a shiver runs down my spine as her soft, milky flesh is splayed beneath my hand. So tiny. Fun sized, minus the fun.
When she freezes under my touch, I clear my throat and drop my hand from her skin, then stand.
"I think we need more shots," I tell her, grinning.
She nods her head, "Yessss, and music."
That's how we end up below deck with the yacht’s surround sound vibrating through the massive speakers. My first mistake was letting Sophia choose the music. We've been listening to nineties hits for the past thirty minutes. I've claimed a chair at the dining table while I watched her hips sway with the beat of alternative rock.
"I fucking love this song," she says, clutching an invisible microphone. Great, another Backstreet Boys serenade.
