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Sunshine
Mom liked to tell the story of how I smiled in the hospital the day I was born, and never stopped. “All the nurses loved you,” she would say. “Even if it was probably gas.”
Sometimes it seemed I’d spent all twenty-four years of my life smiling, and after only an hour on board the superyacht, I knew I was going to need all those years of practice to hold onto my temper.
Or my sanity.
That insufferable man had interrogated me, growled at me, and stared at me all the way to the yacht. Then he’d practically dragged me onto the boat before vanishing, dumping me on a steward at the very first opportunity. Grumpy Grantham indeed.
“So, why is this boat called the Little Duchess XI?” I asked the dark-haired twelve-year-old inside my room, who stood with her arms crossed and a suspicious glare on her face. She was dressed in all black from head to toe, including her long-sleeved top, floor-length skirt, Doc Marten boots, and what looked like a hand-drawn neck tattoo. I hoped it was Sharpie markered on, but who knew what billionaires’ children were allowed to do. Apparently, they had free rein to enter the staff bedrooms unannounced. “Do you know? I hope the first ten Little Duchesses didn’t sink or something.”
No response.
I glanced up from the pile of clothing and shoes on my bed. So far, besides the ones I had on, I only had one other pair of shoes that matched—five-inch red heels that Rain had bought me as a joke. I’d managed to bring enough socks and underwear for three weeks, except I’d only grabbed lacy thongs and two pairs of my day-of-the-week granny panties—Thursday and Sunday.
My clothing options were even worse. Instead of bringing my go-to casual outfits, I’d managed to pack the things I’d pulled to the front of my closet to give away. Everything was either too tight, not my style, or something my friends had given me to try and get me to stop dressing in what they said were “Quaker-approved” outfits. They’d bought a bunch of dresses at an online boutique that specialized in discreet bondage wear, but I’d never been drunk enough to wear them.
“Not enough tequila in the world,” I mumbled, hastily stuffing a top that sported tiny padlocks all the way down the front behind the one dark blue formal gown I’d packed. I shoved my wallet and engagement ring in the safe, then turned back to the messy bed.
I had ten minutes before I was expected back in the main dining room to meet Lorelei Grantham, the bride on this wedding voyage. According to the crew member who’d escorted me to my room, she would give me my detailed instructions for the duration of the cruise.
Well, at least I had one outfit that wasn’t ridiculous. I smoothed the front of my bright yellow dress and peered down at my feet. The new shoes I’d worn all day had rubbed blisters in my heels, and I’d almost cried with relief when I realized I’d actually packed sandals.
Maybe no one would notice one was gold and one silver.
I slid the empty case under my bed and stood, addressing my cabin guest again. “Is your name… Serena?” I’d been given a list with all the children’s names and ages onboard. I hoped I wasn’t in charge of all nine of them, though it would explain the ridiculous compensation. I wouldn’t remember any of the names until I could put faces to them. But I could learn this one. “Eleanor?” I widened my smile as the girl’s scowl grew deeper. “Blaire? Devon?”
“No, I’m Sylvia.” She left the wordsyou idiotunspoken.
“That’s a lovely name,” I said, holding out my hand to shake.
She backed up slightly, but didn’t move out of the doorway. “I’m going to change it as soon as I can.”
“To what?” At this range, I could see the neck tattoo was definitely done in permanent marker, and more than that—it was words.
“Ennui,” she drawled, with a lovely French accent. “I want everything about my person to reflect my inner miasma.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “So you’re an intellectual. And…”—I hazarded a guess—“a poet, I would think.” She tilted her head at me, her lip curling on one side like she’d smelled something rank.
“What would a betasitter know about poetry?” She arched her neck up, and I read the first words of the tattoo aloud.
“‘I shut my eyes…’”
A wicked smile curled up as she yanked her collar tightly around her throat and buttoned it so I couldn’t read the rest. “And all the world drops dead,” she intoned, overdramatically. She paused, as if waiting for a reaction.
I just smiled and gestured for her to go ahead of me. “It was one of my favorite poems when I was younger. I’m surprised you like it so much.”
She scoffed, trotting nimbly up the narrow stairs to the next deck. “You don’t need to pretend, Betasitter. I’m not going to ‘bond with you,’ or whatever you have in mind. My mom just asked me to make sure you came straight to the family lounge.”
“Your mother?”
“Thebride.” She practically spat the word.
Oof.“That was kind of her. Is she worried I’ll fall overboard?”
She arched a black brow. “More likely that you’ll pinch some wedding guest’s jewels.”
I fought to hold onto my smile. “Well, I’m more worried about the former. Slightly terrified, in fact.” I kept walking, wondering if she would take the bait.
