Read an Excerpt

One

Naya

8:46 a.m.

Naya Morgan was going to make everything fit into her suitcase if it was the last thing she did. She dropped to her knees, pinning down the top of the overflowing bag. Whoever wrote the email saying she could only bring one carry-­on bag clearly did not understand how many outfits were needed for a weeklong trip to Bermuda. Besides the scheduled meals and team-­building activities, who knew what they were going to do? The one thing she did know for sure was that each of her friends, the trendsetters of Yatesville, would be dressed to kill.

Her mom and stepdad’s tax bracket meant she would never actually be able to compete with the off-­the-­runway fashions of her peers, but she had to try. She had no plans to continue to be friends with her haughty group beyond this trip, but she didn’t want to be judged or ridiculed while on the boat, either.

So Naya had packed an ensemble (and a backup) for every possible situation, along with a copy of Sailing in Style— the guide she’d found in the ninety-­nine-­cent bin of her favorite indie bookstore—two family-­sized boxes of cereal, and enough beef jerky to feed a small army. Some would call it overprepared. She called it necessary. After all, being “overprepared” was one of the reasons she’d been awarded a coveted Yates Society scholarship and a place on the mega­yacht that would take her on the celebratory cruise of a lifetime. Not only had each of this year’s inductees graduated high school—though some lacked Naya’s academic achievement awards—but they’d also made it through the arduous, monthslong selection process and were being rewarded with this amazing adventure.

Naya’s forehead creased and a wash of embarrassment and anger heated her cheeks as she remembered the Rumor Has It article that had clearly been aimed at her acceptance into the society.

“Diversity inductee,” she grumbled.

Well, this diversity inductee had maintained a high GPA throughout high school, volunteered with different disaster relief programs, had been the president of the Pre-­Med Club, and was a few months away from attending Johns Hopkins with the goal of one day becoming the chief of ER with a career longer than the existence of Grey’s Anatomy.

Naya threw her weight against her suitcase and zipped it closed before collapsing onto her back and stretching her arms overhead in triumph.

A wet nose nudged her elbow, and she rolled onto her stom­ach, smiling as Smoochie’s long tail shook his even longer Twinkie-­shaped body. He rubbed against her like a cat, his wiry, terrier-­mix fur tickling her arm.

She kissed the golden-­white scruff on the top of his head, ignoring his cranky growl of protest.

“I’ll be back soon, Smoochie.” She continued to scratch behind his ears, refusing to tell him that she would be off to college and gone for good by the end of the summer.

Naya’s phone trilled and she reached up, grabbing it from her floral duvet.

Taylor.

Naya jumped to her feet and ran to her vanity. She had to do a once-­over before answering the video call from her best friend. She would sooner die than look a complete mess. Her friends were perfect. So she had to be, too.

Flecks of pink paint drifted to the floor as she dropped into the chair and swiped her flat iron off the plate she used to keep from further scorching the garage-­sale vanity she’d painted to match her floral wallpaper. The final video call ring sounded while she smoothed the flat iron through the baby hairs curling around her temples. Satisfied every last whorl had been straightened and she had no petal-­pink gloss on her teeth, Naya took a breath and redialed.

Taylor answered on the first ring. “Hey, slut!” she chimed, leaning back against a blue-­and-­white-­striped chaise shading her from the bright Miami sun, the steady whoosh of ocean waves crashing in the distance.

Naya combed her fingers through her brown locks, wincing when they caught in her damaged ends. She needed a trim. “I thought we weren’t saying that anymore.”

Taylor frowned, her perfectly contoured lips tilting into a disapproving glower. “Slut-­shaming requires actual insertion, and you haven’t graduated past cunnilingus.”

Naya’s cheeks flamed at the word choice, two red spots burning against her light-­brown skin.

“That reminds me!” Taylor sat up a little straighter. “You know what I just read?”

Naya’s eyes widened, and she pulled up her browser. She knew exactly what Taylor was talking about. Even though they’d left high school behind, it was still all anyone talked about online, but she’d been so preoccupied packing she hadn’t even checked the site.

Rumor Has It . . . appeared on the screen in a perfect hand-­lettered cursive font fit for the royalty Everly Fuller thought she belonged to. Before Naya could scan the latest entry in her classmate’s gossip rag, Taylor cleared her throat and began reading:

“Guess who scored five TDs last Friday? Don’t blame you if you’re confused. The former ‘star’ ”—she held up a hand and put air quotes around the word—“quarterback was never very good at hitting his mark. Guess he’s prepping himself for college by scoring . . . lying down. But what will his high school sweetheart do when she finds out he’s playing her? Well, if she needs a shoulder to cry on, you know where to find me. Ever yours, Everly.”

Naya blinked and skimmed the post. “Gemma . . . ,” she whispered. “This is about Gemma Hasting. She’s going to be heartbroken.” Naya brought Taylor’s face back to full screen. “She and Cole are going to Stanford together in the fall. They’re road-­tripping there and everything.”

Taylor shrugged. “One of the many reasons high school flings should be left behind along with the rest of high school.”

“They’re in love,” Naya countered.

“Oh, dear, sweet, naive Naya . . .” Taylor sighed and left the shade of the umbrella, her phone bobbing slightly as she headed away from the palm trees and toward the water.

With her peachy skin and long blond hair, Taylor looked like most of the people in their hometown of Yatesville, Okla­homa, a wealthy suburb of Tulsa that had gushed from the earth like the oil that ran through each family’s blood. Unlike Naya, whose light-­brown skin and decidedly non–­old money origins made her a beacon of otherness, Taylor belonged.

Naya frowned. Believing in love didn’t make her naive. Her glance fell on the framed photo Étienne had given her for their sixth-­month anniversary—prom night, and it had been perfect. He had been perfect. And then he’d left.

She shook her head.

No more crying.

“So.” Naya cleared her throat and swallowed her sadness. “How does Everly get her hands on these rumors?” She emphasized the last word, knowing full well every rumor had proved to be fact.

“Doubt we’ll ever know.” Taylor lifted one sun-­kissed shoulder. “A good reporter never reveals her source.”

And in Naya’s opinion, Everly Fuller was the best. She’d been running her gossipy Lady Whistledown–­style online column long before anyone watched Bridgerton.

Smoochie’s collar jingled as he jumped onto the bed and burrowed under the unmade covers.

“When do you get here?” Taylor asked, a seagull’s cry echoing from her end of the call.

Naya unplugged her flat iron and sighed at her luggage. There was no possible way she could stuff another thing into her bag. “I land in Miami around one, then I’ll head straight to the marina. I’m super excited to see the boat.”

“I think you mean megayacht.” A gust of wind twirled Taylor’s hair, giving it an even beachier wave. “And this is what I’m super excited for you to see.” She flipped the screen, and Naya was greeted by an expanse of glittering ocean that blended into a cornflower-­blue sky.

Naya’s cheeks plumped with a smile. “I cannot wait to see the ocean in person.”

Taylor zoomed in on the whitecaps as they rolled onto shore in glimmering lines of foam. “It’s gorgeous. I have no idea why our parents insist on living in a landlocked state.”

Money.

Naya bit her bottom lip. Not having any was something Taylor and her group of friends would never understand. It was the reason she was currently admiring the sea from miles away instead of beside her best friend, who could afford to fly to Miami two days before their yacht was due to leave. It was the reason the Yates scholarship and its accompanying celebratory trip would change Naya’s life forever.

Naya set her flat iron on top of her bulging bag and dropped down onto her bed next to Smoochie and his pile of covers. “Is everyone else there?”

The image bobbed and Taylor’s shoes made a soft flip-­flop in the sand as she headed closer to the group and their row of chaise longues, empty except for one, set up a few feet from the water.

“Wave to Naya!” she cheered, thrusting the phone at her uninterested peers.

Amelia turned, her smooth, flipped chestnut-­brown bob unmoving, her Forbidden Love lilac-­colored lips lifting in a smile. “On your way yet?” Before Naya could answer, a football crashed into the open cooler beside Amelia. She squealed as ice water sprayed her lavender sundress.

“Serves her right,” Taylor mumbled. “She’s dressed like someone’s grandma.”

Gabe charged into view, his bare shoulders streaked with sunscreen. “Shit. Sorry, Amelia.” He brushed a hand through his dark curls as he bent and picked up the wet football. “Hey, Naya.” He offered a quick wave before running back to Brett and Finn, who stood waiting in the distance, ankle deep in the lapping waters of the ocean.

“Finn!” Taylor shouted. “Say hi to Naya!”

The tall blond offered a quick wave before jumping into the air to make a catch.

“Speaking of Finn . . . ,” Naya began, returning the gesture. “Weren’t you just saying that high school flings need to stay in high school?”

Taylor panned from one end of their section of beach to the other. “Finn isn’t a fling, Naya,” she said, annoyance barbing her voice. “He’s, like, completely obsessed with me.”

Naya pursed her lips. Leave it to Taylor to downplay her own feelings.

“Where’s Everly?” Naya asked, digging her toes into the tight weave of her carpet.

“Who knows? Probably off pouting because she’s not getting enough attention.” Taylor bent over to pull a drink from the cooler. “Hurry up and get here.” She pooched her bottom lip and slid the silver-­and-­red can into a koozie. “You know I hate being alone.”