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I typed back: *No promises, Soldier Boy.*

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Finally: *I'm counting every infraction. We'll settle up later.*

A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. I locked my phone, staring out at the city lights blurring past. Soon, I'd be on a yacht full of bikers, pretending the man I loved was just another member of the club. Pretending his hands hadn't mapped every inch of my skin, that his voice hadn't talked me through countless nightmares, that he hadn't become my safe harbor in every storm.

The driver chatted about the weather, and I made appropriate noises, but my mind was already on the boat. On the challenge of keeping my hands to myself when every instinct screamed to touch him. On Duke's too-knowing eyes and the secrets we were desperately trying to keep.

This was going to be fun.

Or a complete disaster.

Probably both.

Theyachtwasthekind of ridiculous that only existed in rap videos and mob movies—three decks of gleaming white excess bobbing in the harbor like a middle finger to financial responsibility.

I was amazed that they got this thing on the Colorado river.

String lights created constellation patterns across every surface, and a DJ setup occupied the upper deck, already pumping out something with too much bass. I'd expected a boat. This was a floating palace.

Mandy bounced over before I'd even cleared the gangplank, crown sparkling with enough rhinestones to blind low-flying aircraft. Her sash proclaimed "BRIDE TO BE" in glitter that was already shedding everywhere, leaving a sparkly trail like she was marking her territory.

"Lena! Thank god, someone fun!" She thrust a champagne flute into my hand, already three drinks in judging by her flushed cheeks. "All the King’s old ladies are talking about babies and recipes. Actual recipes! Like casseroles are appropriate bachelorette party conversation."

"The horror," I laughed, accepting the champagne and taking a careful sip. Pace yourself, I reminded my brain.

Three drinks maximum. Don't do anything stupid like climb Tyson like a tree in front of everyone.

"Right? I tried to start a conversation about that new toy store that opened downtown—you know, the adult one—and Margaret actually clutched her pearls. Actual pearls!" Mandy gestured wildly, champagne sloshing dangerously. "Like we're not here celebrating me getting married to Thor. THOR. You think that man does missionary with the lights off?"

I choked on my champagne, laughing. "Mandy!"

"What? It's my party, I can speculate about my future husband's bedroom preferences if I want. I’m an accountant. I’mrespectable." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, the man has this thing for—"

Movement at the gangplank caught my eye, saving me from whatever revelation Mandy was about to share. The men were boarding in a pack, leather cuts and attitude making them look like invading Vikings. My eyes found Tyson automatically, drawn like a magnet. He looked unfairly good—dark jeans, black henley under his cut, every line of his body radiating controlled power.

Our eyes met across the deck. One second. Two. Then he forced himself to look away, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides. The dismissal shouldn't have made heat pool in my stomach, but apparently my body had its own ideas about what was attractive.

Thor wore a matching "GROOM" sash that looked like it was physically hurting him. Someone—probably Duke—had added a plastic crown that sat crooked on his head. He looked like a biker king who'd lost a bet, which probably wasn't far from the truth.

"Baby!" Mia appeared from nowhere, phone already recording. "Smile for your future kids!"

"Jesus, Mia, we ain't even married yet," Thor protested, trying to duck away from the camera.

"Details," Mia waved him off. "They'll want to see how handsome their Dad looked. Lena, get in here!"

I tried to step back, but Mia's arm shot out, dragging me into frame. "Look at you! That dress is perfect. Shows off those gorgeous tattoos. Right, Tyson?"

My stomach dropped. Across the deck, Tyson's head snapped up at his name.

"Hadn't noticed," he grumbled, very deliberately studying the beer selection like it held the secrets of the universe.

Duke snorted, the sound carrying clearly. "Sure you haven't."

I forced myself to smile for Mia's camera, pretending I couldn't feel the testosterone-charged undercurrents threatening to pull me under.

"Okay, ladies!" Sarah—a barmaid from The King’s Tavern—clapped her hands, full teacher mode. "Bridal party to the main deck! We're starting with games!"

I let myself be herded with the other bridesmaids, clutching my champagne like a lifeline. The first hour was almost normal. We played the stupid games Mia and I had organized—bridal bingo, guess the dress, something involving ribbons and wishes that I didn't quite follow. I stuck to the edges of the group, slowly nursing my drink, pretending I wasn't hyperaware of every movement from the men's side of the yacht.