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3
ABBY
Why is my bed moving?
I lift my head from a pillow and squint against the blinding light pouring in the windows. On the other side of the thick glass is water. Lots of water.
Apparently, I spent the night on a boat. Not the Airbnb in Madrid where I’m supposed to be, and not the Airbnb in Ibiza where I’mnotsupposed to be, but on a boat owned by strangers.
One of whom gave me the best orgasm of my life.
I look around the bedroom. It seems pretty big for a boat, not that I’ve been on many, but it’s definitely bigger than I would have expected. The bed is sprawling, king-sized I’m pretty sure, and faces a widescreen TV built into the wall.
Do people really go out on yachts and sit in their rooms watching movies?
On the side of the wall with the windows, there are two chairs that look like they swivel so you can either face them to look at the water, or turn them around and watch the TV. There is a seating area with a sofa, a small bar, and mini-fridge. It’s all decorated in the dark colors that men seem to like so much, with rich wood paneling on the walls, and thick, plushy carpet.
Not that different from my dad’s house, to be honest.
The most interesting thing is that I’m alone. Surrounded by utter silence.
I’m happy to be waking up by myself. I’m not complaining. But I’m pretty sure that since Bogdan and I messed around here, this must be his room.
So where is he?
I jump back into the jeans and skimpy shirt the girls gave me in case anyone barges in, and start opening doors, looking for a bathroom. A room like this surely has its own, right?
The first door I open leads to a large closet, the kind you find in celebrity magazines with built in shelves and dressers and perfect lighting.
The next door is locked. Interesting.
And the last door—bingo!
I pee and freshen up, using an unopened toothbrush I find in the vanity. These guys probably keep a supply for all the girls they lure back to the boat. I do my best to pull my wild hair into some sort of knot on top of my head, splash a little water on my pits and vajayjay, and take a deep breath.
Time to make my appearance.
Hopefully I can just say thank you for the good time, get back to the Airbnb, and get the hell out of here. The sisters might have booked our flights, but I have my confirmation number, so I should be cool. I may even go to the airport early and cross my fingers for an earlier flight. I had about as much fun in twenty-four hours as I can tolerate, and while Madrid is still far from home, it’s where I can relax. And return all the freaking phone calls I missed from my father. He’s going to be jumping mad I didn’t answer last night when he called. I’ll just tell him I fell asleep early. Jet lag, yo.
Speaking of which, where’s my phone?
I rifle through my jeans pockets and come up with a credit card and some euros in one pocket and my red lipstick in the other.
Must have left the phone where we were hanging last night. I think Bogdan called it the afterdeck?
So I slowly open the bedroom door, not sure what exactly lies on the other side. The night before, when I came down here with Bogdan, it was so late and so dark he could have walked me off the side of the boat and I wouldn’t have noticed until I hit the water.
I enter a hallway with several other doors I figure lead to bedrooms like the one I just came out of. I don’t see a soul, so I lean my ear against a couple to figure out whether I’m the first person up. But again, silence.
Is everyone sleeping later than me?
And what time is it, anyway?
I follow the hallway to stairs I remember coming down the night before—actually, probably only a few hours ago—and find myself in a huge kitchen with a dining room just beyond. It’s a gorgeous kitchen by any measure but the fact that it’s a full-size one on a boat boggles my mind.
I thought boats had tiny little kitchens. Clearly, yachts are a different story.
I snag a bottle of water from the fridge and climb another set of steps, this time finally hearing signs of life.
