I spend the night tossing and turning alone in my hotel bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore the unsatisfied ache between my legs.

I can’t stop thinking about what happened back at the club.

His mouth. His body. His hands . . .

What would have happened if I hadn’t stopped things when I did? I can certainly fill in the blanks for myself: over, and over, and over again.

Ahem.

Morning takes a looooong time to come. But one thing’s for certain, it can’t ever happen again—at least, not outside the privacy of my own X-rated fantasies. Which is fine. I can resist him. He’s just a man. A hot, funny, charming, hot—did I mention hot?—man who can reduce me to a panting molten pool of desire in just a couple of kisses, but he’s still human. And a client. And as long as I keep reminding myself of that, I should be fine.

Right?

The next day, we’re supposed to hang out with my dad and Vanessa, so I hit the gym as soon as it opens, then take an extra-cold shower and gird my loins against what I’m sure is about to be one of the more uncomfortable morning-after encounters of my life. I grab my phone off the nightstand and scroll to Ryan’s name. Meet you in the lobby? I text. We should head out soon.

The three dots appear right away. Already down here, princess.

Oh. I frown at the screen, strangely flustered. I don’t know why I was thinking I’d have to blast him out of bed like some irresponsible frat boy. So much about him is different from what I’d expect.

On my way.

I’m prepared for things to be seriously awkward between us, but when I get down to the lobby Ryan looks totally relaxed, sitting on one of the couches scrolling the headlines with an iced coffee in one hand. “Morning,” he says with a smile. “I would have gotten you something, but I didn’t know what you drink.”

“Small latte, double shot,” I tell him. “Whole milk.”

Ryan looks surprised. “You know,” he says as he gets to his feet, “I would have taken you for a skim.”

“Skim milk is actually harder to digest,” I explain inanely. I can’t believe we’re talking about dairy products right now. “Better to just drink less.”

“Huh,” he says. “Learn something new every day.”

“I guess so.”

Just stop!

God, it’s like last night didn’t even happen—or, I realize suddenly, like maybe for Ryan it happens so frequently it didn’t even leave an impression. He may be the first guy I’ve made out with up against the wall in, um, forever, but maybe that was just a regular night on the town for him. He’s the player, after all.

Well, fine. Two can play that game. I jam my sunglasses onto my face and get my own coffee, then meet him out in the parking lot.

“Top on or off?” Ryan asks, as we climb into the car.

“What?” I whip my head around, my eyes boggling.

He smirks, nodding at the roof of the car. “The top, princess. You want the breeze today?”

“Oh.” I feel my cheeks color. Jesus Christ, Olivia. Pull it together. “No thanks. Up is fine.”

The drive back to the Keys takes forever. I feel hyperaware of Ryan’s every shift and movement, stealing glances at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s wearing jeans and a soft-looking gray T-shirt that clings to his chest in a way that seem specifically calculated to drive me insane. I’ve never been super attracted to guys with big muscles, but with Ryan I can’t deny how much I like the size of him, how unapologetically male he is. Like if he wanted to, he could pick me up, swing me over his shoulder caveman-style, and carry me off to—

“Olivia?” Ryan says. Suddenly I realize we’re sitting in the driveway of my dad’s house. “You coming?”

“Oh,” I say, swallowing hard. “Um, yup.”

I take a beat, then follow him into the house. The pre-wedding festivities don’t start until tomorrow, so I’m thinking I’ll take advantage of the calm before the storm to lay out by the pool at the hotel, or maybe distract myself with some work. I owe Alice a call to check in, and I want to comb through some final details of Jason Kilcher’s S&M-free weekend in the woods . . .

But when we get inside the house, it looks like it’s been hit by a hurricane. There are suitcases everywhere. Half-finished centerpieces cover the dining room table. A small, yappy dog runs in demented circles in the foyer while Jagger looks on mournfully, a pained expression on his doggie face that clearly reads, Can you believe this shit?

“Peaches,” scolds a high-pitched voice, heels clacking on the tile. A skinny woman I’ve never seen before swoops in and scoops the little rodent up off the floor, tucking him into a Louis Vuitton handbag for safekeeping. She stops when she sees me. “Oh!” she says, tilting her head to the side. “Are you the delivery girl? You can put the food in the kitchen!”

“Oh my God, you’re so funny,” Vanessa squeals, scampering into the foyer. She’s wearing a crown of eucalyptus branches, her hair in styled curls down her back. “This is my stepdaughter! Livvie, these are your aunties-to-be!”

Two more blondes follow her in from the living room; Vanessa introduces the trio as Kirsty, Crystal, and Kiki, though I immediately lose track of which is which. All three of them are wearing crop tops with Bride Tribe emblazoned across the boobs in loopy gold script, and they’re loaded down with garment bags and makeup trunks. One of them—Kiki, maybe?—has a flatiron looped around her neck like a stethoscope.

“You’re just in time!” Vanessa coos. Her tank top helpfully identifies her as the bride, in case any of us are in danger of forgetting. “We’re going to take bachelorette photos!”

“Oh!” I blink. “Is . . . that a thing?”

“Of course, silly!” She smiles. “And I want you to be in them even though you’re not in the bridal party.”

I technically am in the bridal party, actually—my dad asked me to be his best woman—but right now doesn’t seem like the time to point that out. “Oh, you don’t need me,” I say, waving a hand. “You guys look fantastic just the four of you, and I’ve actually got some stuff to—”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Vanessa says, grabbing my arm so tightly I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t leave bruises. “I insist! And I’m your mom now, remember? So you have to do what I say.”

Yeah, I’m still not finding that as hilarious as Vanessa does. I’m about to put my foot down when I catch sight of Ryan through the living room window—he’s settling down by the pool, his perfect bare chest gleaming in the sunlight.

Hello. I practically have to wipe the drool off my chin.

Spend the day with temptation just an arm’s length away, or brave whatever Vanessa has in store?

Dammit. It’s probably not a bad idea for me to put some space between us before I manage to make even more of a fool of myself.

“OK,” I say finally, turning back to the Bride Tribe and feeling vaguely like I just agreed to my own execution. “Bachelorette photos. Sounds great!”

We pile into Vanessa’s bright yellow Mini Cooper and head down to the marina, where we meet the photographer, their assistant, and the captain of our chartered speedboat, which will deliver us out to a tiny island a few miles off the coast. “A private island!” Vanessa squeals, already toasting SkinnyGirl margaritas with her friends on board. “It belongs to some of Larry’s friends, and they totally said we could use it for our shoot. Apparently, there’s like an actual shipwreck!”

“We’re so going to kill it on Instagram!” Crystal—or is it Kirsty?—says as we arrive, and I have to admit she’s right. It’s a beautiful day, sunny but not too oppressively hot, and the island is picture-perfect, with soft white sand gleaming invitingly, and shady palm trees swaying in the breeze.

I step out onto the dock, beginning to feel more optimistic. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. A little time on the beach could be exactly what I need to clear my head.

“Look at this!” Kiki (???) is yelling, waving us over to the shipwreck, where the old wooden frame of a boat is scattered on the shoreline. “It’s perfect for the theme.”

Uh, hold on a second.

“Theme?” I ask, trying to keep the sudden suspicion out of my voice. Nobody said anything about a theme.

“Of course, silly!” Vanessa grins at me from behind her massive sunglasses. “Pirates of the Caribbean.”

I laugh out loud. “No, really,” I say, digging some sunblock out of my purse. “What is it?”

Vanessa gazes at me blankly for a moment and that’s when I realize she’s serious. “Oh,” I say, trying to backpedal. “That’s . . . creative!”

But Vanessa is hardly listening, turning to supervise as the girls unpack various outfits and accessories from the back of the speedboat, directing them this way and that like an army captain organizing the invasion of Normandy.

“Um, Vanessa,” I say, catching sight of a particularly low-cut pirate wench ensemble—which, at first glance, look likes it was stolen from the uniform closet of a low-end chain restaurant an hour outside of Orlando. “Where did you get these costumes?”

“I got them for a song from a local theater group,” she reports, obviously delighted by the DIY of it all. “They did Pirates of Penzance last season. The dresses had to be totally reconstructed to make them sexier, of course, but all those sewing lessons will totally pay off, right girls?”

“Um, yep,” Kirsty says, tying on a bright-read headscarf printed with tiny skulls. “That thousand-dollar sewing machine you had me buy will definitely come in handy next time I need new curtains for my apartment.”

I want to laugh, but it’s hard to feel particularly smug when you’re about to have your picture taken wearing a corset and fishnet stockings.

But when in Rome. Or rather, Florida . . .

I change into my wench outfit, and struggle to pin an ancient-looking stuffed parrot to my shoulder, swearing quietly as his crusty beak pokes me in the temple for the fifteenth time.

The things I do for my father.

“Be careful with Horace over there,” Vanessa chirps, nodding at the bird’s faded tail-feathers. “He’s real.”

“What?” I shriek, ripping the flea-bitten corpse off my shoulder and chucking it down into the sand, where it considers me with one menacing eyeball.

Vanessa laughs. “I’m just kidding, Livvie,” she says, adjusting her pirate tiara—she’s the queen in this little tableau, obviously. “Maybe.”

“Ha.” I force a smile. “Hilarious!”

“Come on, let’s all get in position!”

We take pictures for what feels like hours—lounging on the sand, draped over an outcropping of rocks in the surf, gathered precariously on the creaking ruins of the shipwreck while Vanessa plays captain. It looks like we’re starring in a 70s porno with a kinky Disney theme. The photographer clicks gamely away, stopping only when Vanessa tries to convince her to shimmy up the ship’s termite-eaten mast to get a series of aerial shots.

“Yes, this is perfect!” Vanessa says, checking the camera display.

Kiki peers over her shoulder. “You can airbrush out my cellulite, right?”

“Keeks, what happened to that fasting program I sent you?” Vanessa coos, fake-syrupy. “You know carbs go straight to your butt.” She pinches Kiki’s ass and laughs.

Kiki’s face falls.

“I think you look great,” I speak up, taking pity on her. I mean, I’m not the only one strapped and trussed into this getup. She’s got a bright-red bustier on, and shorts so high I can see her last trip to Brazil.

“Thanks,” Kiki gives me a faint smile.

We take a break for refreshments while Vanessa bickers with the photographer about showing her best side. They’re all drinking plastic cups of what the Bride Tribe is calling “grog” but I’m pretty sure is sorority-style party punch, confirmed when I take a cautious sip—vodka mixed with what tastes suspiciously like Kool-Aid, a one-way ticket to Hangover Town. I stick mostly to bottled water, picking at the fruit salad and half listening to the bridesmaids’ chatter. Kirsty is a nutritionist who specializes in fad diets, while Kiki is into crystals—or the other way around, maybe? And Crystal recently broke up with her boyfriend Josh after walking in on him with their personal trainer . . . whose name is also Josh. “I’ll never look at the weight bench the same way again,” she says sadly, peeling off her eye patch and dropping it into the sand.

Kiki shakes her head. “Enough about dumb Josh,” she says, knocking back the rest of her party punch with practiced ease and raising her empty cup in my direction. “I want to hear about what it’s like to date Ryan fucking Callahan.”

“Oh my God, yes!” The others look at me with a mix of admiration and envy. “Spill!

I gulp. Right away my whole body gets warm, and it has nothing to do with the sun beating down overhead. “He’s great,” I say carefully. “I don’t know if that’s— I mean, we really like each other, if that’s what you’re—”

Crystal rolls her eyes, “Don’t be coy, Olivia,” she chides, all Josh-related heartbreak momentarily forgotten. “We want all the dirty details.”

“Yeah we do,” Kiki adds, pouring herself another cup of grog. “Like, for instance: is his package as big as the rest of him?”

Kirsty snorts. “Keeks!” she chides, then looks at me with laser focus. “No, seriously though, we totally want to know.”

I pause, reaching down and fussing with the laces of the high-heeled pirate booties we’ve all been tottering around in. This is so not the kind of conversation I want to be having with a bunch of sorority girls in busty wench outfits. Still, I remember the feel of him, hard and hot against my thigh at the club last night, and I find myself nodding. “It’s . . . definitely impressive,” I admit before I can stop myself.

“All of him is impressive,” Kiki says, scooping her curly hair up off her shoulders. “Seriously, those muscles? I don’t know how you can keep your hands off him long enough to get anything done.”

“It’s a challenge,” I say truthfully.

Vanessa makes her way back over to the group. “What’s up, guys?”

“We’re talking about Olivia’s football hunk boyfriend,” Kirsty reports. “Isn’t she lucky?”

“Oh.” Vanessa looks at me, then back at the others. “Well, Livvie wasn’t exactly what you’d call a guy magnet back in college, so of course it’s—”

But the girls aren’t listening. “What’s he like in bed?” Kiki demands. “Does he just, like, pick you up and toss you around like one of those tackle dummies?”

I definitely don’t hate the idea of Ryan using all that size to his advantage. Still, I think of the focused, capable way he touched me last night . . . I shake my head. “It’s not rough, exactly,” I say, technically truthful. “He’s good with his hands, for sure. Most of all he’s just surprising, you know? He isn’t how I imagined him at all.”

“Larry and I have been experimenting with a little light bondage,” Vanessa announces, obviously jonesing for the Bride Tribe’s undivided attention, but before I have time to be properly horrified by the thought of my dad and her recreating an at-home version of Fifty Shades of Grey, Crystal turns to me.

“Lock that shit down,” she advises, her voice thick with the sage wisdom of the heartbroken and slightly drunk. “I can tell by the look on your face when you talk about him that what you and Ryan have is the real deal, so don’t make the same mistakes I did.” She sighs heavily. “On top of everything else, I have to find a new gym.”

Vanessa checks her phone. “Come on, guys. Time to head back if we want to make our mani-pedi-waxing appointments before dinner!”

We load up the makeup cases and garment bags and the faux-wood treasure chest back into the speedboat, while Vanessa selfies in front of a palm tree. It looks like she might take a while, and after all that water, I’m dying for the bathroom, so I duck into the brush really quick to pee before the ride back, hoping that nobody gets snap-happy while I’m in my less-than-elegant crouch.

Thankfully, there’s no noise coming from the beach, so I finish my business, and wriggle back into my pirate suit, making my way back to the sand. “Guys?” I call, but there’s no reply, and when I clear the tree line, I realize why.

There’s nobody there.

No. No, no!

Horror floods my body like a kayak that’s sprung a leak, and I look desperately around at the empty shore. “This is a prank, right?” I call loudly. “Haha, very funny. You’re hilarious, Vanessa!”

But the Bride Tribe doesn’t come stumbling out of the shipwreck in hysterics, and when I look down the dock, I see it’s just as deserted as the rest of the beach.

No bags. No bachelorettes. And, most importantly, no speedboat.

They took off without me back to the mainland. I’m literally stranded on a desert island.

Alone.