Bellamy POV
“We’re only staying for a weekend,” Tristan said, staring at me like I had three heads. “Why do you have three suitcases with you?”
I kept my eyes forward and gripped the handles of my bags like they were my lifeline. “Just… don’t look at me.”
The wheels of my overpacked suitcases rattled against the uneven dock as I dragged them behind me like stubborn toddlers.
“I’m just a girl, okay?” I snapped over my shoulder. “I need these three suitcases.”
I could feel his eyes judging me from behind those stormy lashes, but I didn’t care. Not really.
Even though I had found a less-than-cheap, borderline crumbling apartment downtown… even though I barely had anything left after paying rent, I still went and bought these three glorious, pastel-colored suitcases. I didn’t have much stuff, sure, but the essentials still took up space. Hair products. Heels. A beach hat I wasn’t even sure I’d wear but brought just in case I needed to feel dramatic.
Three suitcases. Three beautiful, necessary suitcases.
I looked at him, adjusting the straps of my purse. “Okay, where’s the boat?”
Tristan pointed toward the water with the slowest, most annoyed finger I’d ever seen.
“There.”
I followed his finger and blinked.
At the end of the dock was a small, loud speedboat, bobbing up and down on the waves like it was having second thoughts about life.
“We’re going in that?” I asked, stunned.
Tristan raised a dark eyebrow. “What did you think? A yacht?”
I wanted to scream. If I had known this was going to be this, I would’ve dumped everything into trash bags and called it a day.
“God,” I muttered under my breath. “I knew I should’ve brought duffel bags.”
When we approached the boat, the boatman—a sun-tanned guy in a ragged baseball cap—looked at my bags, looked at me, and then let out the longest, most theatrical sigh I’ve ever heard.
“Girl,” he said, “these will be ruined.”
“They’re brand new,” I said, as if that would magically change the situation.
“Exactly,” he said. “You’re not bringing this to the island. Ain’t no room. Ain’t no sense.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he handed me a backpack. A tiny, pathetic, crinkly black thing.
“Pick,” he said. “What you need. Toothbrush, clothes, underwear—maybe one glam outfit if you’re into that. The rest stays in the office ‘til you’re back.”
I stared down at the backpack, heartbroken. “This barely fits a pair of shoes.”
“Then don’t bring shoes,” he replied flatly.
Tristan stifled a laugh behind me. I ignored him.
Sighing heavily, I dropped to my knees on the dock and began stuffing what I could into the backpack—some makeup, two outfits, phone charger, travel-size shampoo, and the only bikini I owned that didn’t make me look like a drowned cat.
When I zipped it up, I whispered a soft apology to my pastel suitcase trio and followed Tristan onto the boat.
He sat beside me, cool and collected, like this whole thing wasn’t completely humiliating. He stared straight ahead, one arm slung over the back of the boat as it started to roar to life.
I settled in beside him and felt the wind slap my hair back.
The water glittered beneath us as the city started to fade behind the waves. But my mind was miles away.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the lunch with Max yesterday. He was charming. Not just in the fake, pretty-boy way either. He actually listened. He smiled like he meant it.
The way he leaned in, the way he teased… it all reminded me of that night at the bar.
I mean… could it have been him?
What if he did remember? What if he was just waiting for me to say it first? Testing me?
But God, they were twins. How the hell was I supposed to tell them apart? Same voice, same jawline, same smirk. The only difference was… maybe their souls. But you couldn’t exactly scan that with your eyes.
Unless…
Unless they whipped out their—
STOP, I told myself. No. Nope. Not going there.
I shook the thought from my head just as another wave rocked the boat. My stomach flipped, and not in a cute, butterflies kind of way.
Lately, I’d been feeling… off. Dizzy. Headaches. A weird kind of exhaustion that didn’t go away even with sleep. I’d blamed it on the stress. The running. The hiding. The nonstop chaos of my new life.
But now, as the wind picked up and the boat rocked harder, something in me churned. Not nerves.
Nausea.
Cold, hard nausea.
I closed my eyes. My hands gripped the edge of the seat.
“Are you okay?” Tristan asked, his voice closer now. He leaned in slightly, concern etched on his face. “You look a little… pale.”
“I—” I started, but the world tilted.
Before I could form another word, it happened. I turned toward him—too fast—and vomited.
Right. On. His. Shoes.
Everything in me froze.
My jaw dropped in horror. My hands flew to my mouth. My face turned ten different shades of red. The world actually stopped for a second.
Tristan stared down. Then up. His mouth slightly open. His dark eyebrows lifted high.
“Oh. My. God.” I whispered, completely mortified.