She hurries back, ducking into the cockpit beside me.

“What is that?”

“Warming lube,” she whispers, darting a look at her guests, who are watching us curiously.

I lower my voice, too. I don’t want to ruin this party for her—or for me. The last thing I want is to reap another round of shitty reviews. “I mean, what’s it doing here?”

She gives me a quizzical look. “I don’t understand the question.”

“I thought you were selling beauty products.”

Her eyes get huge. Her mouth forms an O. And her hands spread open, like she’s bracing herself.

“Rachel?” I murmur.

“You, um, didn’t. You didn’t, um, look at the website?”

Her cheeks have bright hot streaks across them. Something in my gut clenches in response to those streaks, like it would if I’d put them there.

I shake my head.

“Oh, God. God. Brody. I’m—I’m so sorry. My mom said she told you to look.”

I vaguely recall this. And a text reminding me to check out the website that came in this morning from Mrs. Perez. Just want to make sure you looked at the site so you know what you’re getting yourself into.

I just figured she meant that the products would all be floral scented and pink and that the participants would use the term “self-care”—one of Amanda’s favorites—a lot.

I did not figure she meant that it would include lube. And—

Oh, shit.

“What else?” I demand.

My voice comes out gruffer than I mean it to, and she flinches. “Um,” she says. She looks around a bit wildly, like someone might save her from this conversation. From me.

“Rachel,” I warn.

“Toys,” she whispers.

Connor is going to kill me. And not in a kind, efficient way. Slowly and with pleasure.

Wait. Connor. Does Connor know?

I review the contents of our conversation. What did he say?

Beauty stuff, like body wash and perfume and shit.

There was no wink-wink, nudge-nudge, and I cannot imagine Connor would deliver this blindsiding to me point blank.

Therefore, he must not know.

Oh, shit.

He cannot find out that Rachel is selling toys on my boat. He cannot.

But more to the point…

I look up, and there she is, tight tank top—and oh, hell, she’s definitely cold—long, dark hair, and very worried expression on her face.

Rachel—Rachel who I have spent the last ten years of my life trying not to think about in a way that includes things like tingling, or lube, or toys.

Connor is a good friend, and I am not this good of a person.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

Also, God give me strength.

Rachel

A rush of humiliation washes over me, while I readjust to this new reality.

Brody did not know.

I just showed up on his boat and blindsided him with boxes full of sex toys.

I die.