There’s a set of stairs leading up to the roof deck in front of us.

“Let’s get away from the edge of the boat,” I say. “The center rocks less than the sides.”

I climb up and Blake follows. There’s a cocktail table draped in a white tablecloth and sprinkled with red rose petals. On top is an ice bucket chilling a bottle of Dom Pérignon and two crystal champagne flutes. The man in the sailor’s uniform runs up the stairs to the roof deck.

“The captain is heading back now,” he announces. “I don’t know if you still . . . would you, um, like champagne?”

Blake gives me a concerned look. “I don’t know if that’s the best choice for you right now?”

I feel like shit, but the water has washed the foul taste from my mouth. I can’t ruin today for good.

“The bubbles will settle my stomach,” I say, aiming for bravado. “It’s like top-shelf ginger ale. Let’s pop that bottle and celebrate.”

The boat attendant laughs. “You’ve got quite a fiancée there, sir,” he says.

Blake rubs my arm appreciatively. “Don’t I know it.”

Once the Dom is popped and poured, I clink my glass to Blake’s.

“Hey, at least the photos will be unforgettable,” I joke.

“Ugh. I’m sure. Speaking of which, the photographer can get some shots of the ring. That’s a thing, right? I did some research.”

I laugh. “Yes, it’s a thing. I’m sure I look disgusting, but I guess photos of my hand would be all right.”

Blake picks up my hand and studies the ring. “Sophie told me this was your favorite piece Brooklyn Jewels has ever made,” he says, shyly meeting my gaze. “It’s quite a piece of jewelry.”

“I know it’s a little much, but thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“Don’t even mention it. It’s a special ring for a special woman.”

He ushers over the photographer, who runs me through modeling all the classic shots I know well: my left hand slipped into Blake’s, splayed out against the backdrop of the Manhattan skyline, wrapped gently around my new fiancé’s arm. The photographer works quickly.

“She knows what she’s doing,” Blake brags to him. “She does this for work.”

“Hand model?” the photographer asks.

“Definitely,” Blake deadpans. He shoots me a look and stifles a laugh.

For the rest of the ride, I lie across a row of seats with my head in Blake’s lap. He doesn’t mention the bits of vomit clinging to my hair. Our champagne flutes sit untouched on the floor by his feet. Even up here, on the roof deck, I can feel every lurch and wave. But I don’t think that’s the sole reason my stomach continues to roll.

• Chapter 19 •