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Once we get outside of the villa, the vise around my chest loosens. This early in the day, the air is damn near magical: cool and fragrant with jungle dew and ocean salt. I close my eyes and breathe in deep. I swear I can practically feel it cleansing my lungs.

“You know,” Kiki says, falling into step beside me, “your mum’s a lot cooler than you think she is.”

“You don’t know my mom.” I bite my lip. I hadn’t meant it to come out quite so acidic.

Kiki shrugs. “I know, but it’s just—she’s so much better than my mum.” She scoffs a little, and I glance at her from the corner of my eye. It’s the first time I notice a shade of vulnerability on her flawless features.

“Your mom’s pretty strict, huh?”

“It’s not about her being strict,” Kiki says with a sigh. “She’ssuch a social climber. Like, she was so insistent on having me come on this trip with you, not because she gives a shit about you or your mum—no offense—but because she wants me to hang out with the konglo, you know?”

“What’s konglo?”

“It’s short for konglomerat.” She pronounces it kong-lo-mer-rut.

“You mean conglomerate?”

Kiki’s mouth twitches into a small smile. “Yeah. We Indos like to bastardize English words. Anyway,konglois what we call the uber wealthy here—families that own multinational corporations and so on. Basically, your boyfriend and his lot.”

“George is not my boyfriend,” I say instinctively.

“Seriously, dude, get used to referring to him as your boyfriend. The entire country thinks you’re his girlfriend, might as well ride this wave. You know how many people would kill to be in your position right now? Like my mum, for example, would definitely throw you under a literal bus if she thought that meant that I would get to be George’s girlfriend. Again, no offense.”

“You do realize that saying ‘no offense’ doesn’t mean you then get to say offensive things?” Still, I can’t help but smile at Kiki. She’s reminding me of Michie in the best possible way—all honesty, no bullshit. “And you are free to take my place as George’s fake girlfriend.”

Kiki tilts her head and gives me a knowing sideways look that makes me want to pinch her really hard. “Anyway, I’m just saying, all in all, your mum could be worse.”

I purse my lips, hating that she’s right. Luckily, Kiki soonloses interest in the subject and starts talking about something else—her jet skiing adventures with Eleanor yesterday evening and how she wishes she had a younger sister just like Eleanor, and did I know that Eleanor’s name is actually Eleanor Roosevelt?

When we get to the hotel lobby, I gulp at the sight of Rina and her camera guy. “God, here goes,” I mutter.

“Get used to it, Meghan Markle.” All sympathy, this one. “And stop fussing with your hair. You’re going to ruin the braid.”

I hurriedly swing my hands down to my side.

“Dude, don’t march either. What is wrong with you?” Kiki hisses. “Walk like a normal human girl.”

Somehow, I manage to tell my legs to keep moving instead of melting into a puddle.

“Morning,” George says, walking over to meet us halfway. I hate to say it, but he looks banging. Button-down shirt that shows off his broad shoulders and biceps and khaki shorts that show off his calves. I never thought I was a calf girl, but here I am ogling his calves like some weird calf-obsessed person. Wow, how many times can a person think the wordcalvesin the space of two seconds? I swallow and wave back, reminding myself to smile. I think I manage to smile instead of stretching my mouth into a rictus grin. I pretend not to notice that the huge camera is pointing right at my face.

Then he’s right in front of me and he’s leaning in for a—akiss? A hug? My mind short-circuits, because apparently I, Sharlot Citra, do not know how to human. As he puts his face toward mine, I turn my head and turn what was supposed to be a chaste cheek-to-cheek kiss into me kissing him on his cheek.Aaah.

George springs back, his cheeks practically neon red. I swear I can practically see my lips branded on his cheek. Quickly, I take my thumb and try to wipe the lipstick off his cheek, but I only smear it.

“It’s fine,” George says with a sheepish smile, his cheeks still burning red.

It was just a peck on the cheek,I want to scream at the universe. I’ve French-kissed a heck of a lot of guys—okay, not a lot, but a very respectable handful—and somehow, this feels like a much bigger deal. The cameraman seems to think so too; he’s adjusting the lens to zoom right at our faces. I turn away, but not before catching the look on Rina’s face. It says: Ooh, stupid cameraman better have gottenthat!

Okay, it probably doesn’t say that, I’m not an expert at figuring out what faces are saying, but Rina looks pleased. Like the cat that caught the mouse or squirrel or whatever it is that cats like to catch.

“Hi, future sis-in-law!” Eleanor says, bounding over and giving me a huge hug. She’s got her hair in two buns and is wearing a bright-yellow top and a short denim skirt and she looks like the human version of sunshine.

“Uh, er.” I have no idea what to say or do, aside from awkwardly patting her on the shoulder.

“Eleanor,” George hisses through gritted teeth.

“What? You should be so lucky, gege,” Eleanor says.