Some of the guests around me cheer, clinking their glasses in celebration. I offer them a small smile before turning back to watch the ship leave Miami’s port.
The ship lurches slightly when we hit open water, making my stomach do this weird flip.
Oh, no.
The last time it felt like that was when I accidentally ate some shellfish that was off at one of my parents’ fancy dinners.
Another lurch.
My stomach flips again.
I grip the railing tighter, taking a deep breath.
It’s fine. I’m fine. I just need to breathe a little.
The ship stutters again, only this time, my stomach doesn’t just flip—it revolts.
Please, no.
No. No. No. No.
I push onto my tiptoes and lean over the railing, heaving up what little breakfast I managed to eat on the plane.
Once it starts, I can’t stop. My stomach convulses, and with every wave, it feels worse.
Fuck this.
When there’s nothing left in my stomach, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and try to subtly untangle the hair that’s sticky with my vomit.
Great start.
I take a step back, wavering slightly through dizziness.
“Easy there.”
I feel a hand gently rest on the small of my back, holding me steady. Then I’m offered a white towel, which I accept without thinking. I just need to clean up before I have to see anyone.
My stomach is still churning, my head is still spinning, and I’m seriously considering jumping off the deck, so I never have to see any of these people again.
“Damn, Honeycomb,” the deep voice says, making me freeze instantly. “With all the time you’ve spent on my bike, I thought you’d be used to this kind of motion.”
I close my eyes on a gulp.
I’m dreaming. There’s no way Zach is on the ship. It’s not even possible.
I pull the white towel away from my face and realize there’s a St. Michael’s logo on it.
Yeah, I’m definitely dreaming. There’s no way in hell he’s here.
His fingers press into the small of my back, and when I turn to look at him, I can’t believe my eyes.
“Hey, Honeycomb,” he says with a haphazard smile.
This isn’t real.
I reach forward and try to push him away, disappointed that not only does he not move, but I can feel his hard chest underneath my palms. He’s not a figment of my imagination. He’s here, wearing bumblebee board shorts and white t-shirt that fits perfectly over his sculpted chest.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” The words explode out of me. “What thefuckare you doing here?”
