Chapter 1 January 1st When people say "New year, new me," my first instinct is to choke dramatically on my own saliva. I mean, I have questions. Why don't you like the you that you are now? And if you don't, why wait for some magical ball drop to change it? Time is a construct, Tiffany. Me? I happen to like myself-some might say too much. But I disagree. The one person you can always count on is yourself, so you might as well be your own favorite bitch. And I, Avery Banks, know exactly what I'm bringing to the table. You're welcome, world. What I'm not as in control of is what the world gives me or just how vulnerable I am going to be to yet another New Year's cliché. Six months ago, my best friend June, my brother Beau (who also happens to be her husband), and his best friends-Henry Callahan, Ronnie Damon, and Maverick Catalano-planned the ultimate New Year's trip to a private island in the Exumas. We all chipped in to make it as obnoxiously extravagant as possible, and that resulted in the mansion having two pools, a sauna, three water slides into the Caribbean, and a chef-staffed kitchen to cater to our every whim. According to eternal optimist June, it was the perfect way to kick off the new year-a fresh start with our favorite people. For me, that meant one favorite person-my bestie June-and a bunch of losers-my older brother and his friends. Unfortunately, a few things have shifted since we originally scheduled this adventure, and as a result, I cannot believe I'm still going. "Go and start the new year off with a bang," Beau said when I tried to back out. Easy for him to say-he gets to stay home. When June bailed due to morning sickness-and general buzzkill status-my brother immediately pulled the plug too, leaving me alone with the three amigos. To cheer myself up, I plan to drink my body weight in cocktails and bake in the sun every day-and if June hadn't let my brother knock her up for the second time at such an inopportune interval, I wouldn't have to do it alone. Ughhhhh. Love that I'm getting a new baby nephew this summer. Hate that June didn't plan this pregnancy better. I sigh heavily and pull my G-Wagon into the parking lot outside the small private airport hangar, located on the north end of Miami Beach, looking for other cars I recognize. I'm normally last to arrive to group ventures, but for a change of pace, I'm on time today, and as a result, some of the morning fog is still burning off over the ocean. Running a hand over my slicked-back ponytail while Billie Eilish sings "Birds of a Feather," I glance in the rearview mirror to fix my lip gloss briefly before paying attention to the twenty-spot blacktop lot and its white-lined spaces. Several are open, so I pull my Mercedes into one on a small screech of tires and scope the area. My brother Beau's best friend Henry Callahan's Mustang is three spaces down, at the end of the line-a sign that I'm in the right place-so I unbuckle, shut off the engine, and climb out to adjust my outfit. I'm dressed casually-something I'm told by my mother, Diane Banks, is appropriate when your plans include jumping out of a plane-settling for Golden Goose sneakers, Nili Lotan Bolero jeans, and a Ravella cashmere sweater instead of my usual Louboutin heels and a cultivated variation of Dior and Saint Laurent and Versace. Those outfits are, of course, in my suitcase, but I'll save them for the safety of the Bahamian island we're planning to vacation on for the next few days instead of the wind of the stratosphere or whatever the hell you have to deal with at several thousand feet with a parachute strapped to your back. You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. We're literally parachuting into the island. Opening the hatch at the back of my SUV, I pull the small roller bag out from its spot in the trunk and shut it again, beeping the locks as I stroll toward the arched hangar. My suitcase follows dutifully, and I settle a pair of Chanel sunnies onto the bridge of my nose to shield the bright sun. A heavy sigh fills my lungs with air and then exits in one big huff. Ugh. I can't believe I'm going to be stuck with Henry, Ronnie, and Maverick all by myself. And to make matters worse, I have to freaking skydive to get there. Which is ridiculous. Henry's company Adrenaline Junkie is the foremost extreme sports equipment company in the country, but that doesn't mean we have to include it in our every move. I mean, sane people take yachts to expensive, exclusive island getaways-not some bullshit airdrop-express-backwoods plane delivery service. The plane doesn't even land on a runway, mind you. We're just supposed to jump out midair like we're Amazon Prime packages being delivered by drone to a deserted island. "Hey, Ave," Henry greets as soon as I step inside the dark hangar. My eyes haven't adjusted yet, so I can't see him, but I've known him nearly all my life at this point, so the voice is a dead giveaway. He and my brother have been friends since grammar school and, for all intents and purposes, have continued to be stuck together like glue well into adulthood. The two of us have a little history too, but that's neither here nor there right now. I've kissed plenty of hot guys in my life-that doesn't mean they don't irritate me. "Hi," I say a little snottily, aggravated with this whole dog and pony show. I never liked the idea of spending my vacation time parachuting out of planes with people I barely tolerate anyway, but with June backing out because she's preggo and Beau doing the same to "take care of her," I'm questioning more and more by the minute why I didn't do the same. My brother's three ridiculous bros and me for three whole days? What the hell was I thinking? "Where should I put my suitcase?" "Suitcase?" Henry questions, his little laugh grating my nerves since it's clearly aimed at me. "You can't bring a suitcase. Just a small pack." I roll my eyes and state the obvious. "This is a small pack. I didn't even bring my full skincare regimen. What the hell do you mean?" "I mean," he says slowly, his hard jaw and stupid plump lips flexing with tried patience. I hate that now that my eyes have adjusted, I'm able to see just how fine as hell he's looking at the moment. "You can't jump with that thing," he blathers on. "You'll fucking kill yourself. I have an extra waterproof waist pouch that fits below your buddy harness you can use. Whatever you can fit, you can take, but nothing more." He reaches over to the table behind him and hands me a small pouch with a high-tech-looking strap and buckle system. It's no bigger than a Lululemon crossbody bag and in no way big enough for all the stuff I have in my suitcase. Not even close. "You can't be freaking serious." I glare at him. "We're staying for three days! How the hell am I supposed to fit what I need in a...a...a fanny pack!" "What do you need other than a bathing suit and some deodorant?" he questions like a total idiot. "Everything else in the house is supposed to be pre-stocked, and we're only going for a couple of days." "Listen, Henry, until you grow a vagina and have to deal with all the complexities that come with one, don't ask me things like what could you possibly need, okay?" Good-natured as usual, Henry smiles at my mocking of his voice rather than getting offended, and I flip him the bird as a rebuttal. I don't need him being all sexy and cute and smoldery while I'm trying to have a tantrum. Hand to my hip, I direct a raised eyebrow at him. "So, what am I supposed to do now?" Henry shrugs. "Well, you could take the suitcase with you..." "Yeah?" I ask, hopeful. "But then we'd basically have to chuck it out of the plane ahead of us, and who knows where it'll land or if it'll be in one piece when and if we find it." I groan and stomp my foot. "You're really fucking irritating me right now." "I know." He nods. And smiles. The hot bastard. "But look at it this way...at least you'll have three days of relaxation to get over your aversion to me." "Are you kidding?" I scoff. "Three days of you and two of the three stooges, and I'm going to be ready to jump out of a plane without a parachute." "The three stooges?" "Beau, Mav, and Ronnie. Two out of three is still too many." Henry's eyebrows draw together. "Ron and Mav aren't coming either. They're both uproariously hungover from last night's New Year's Eve bash at that new club Ransom and hugging the porcelain throne. It's just you and me." "What?" I shriek. "Everyone backed out? Why the hell are we still going, then?" Henry barely reacts. His obscenely attractive face remains infuriatingly calm, his ocean-blue eyes steady as he says, "We already paid for the house." His tone is a little too condescending for my liking, even if his jawline is cut from stone. "Nonrefundable. Maybe you care fuck all about money, but I'd like to at least enjoy what I paid for." "I care about money," I snap. Henry laughs. "Right." "I do!" "You're right. You do care about money-you care about making sure Neil gives it to you so you can spend it on expensive shit." "I'll have you know, when I turn thirty, Daddy plans to cut down my allowance. He just told me a couple days ago." Henry grins, all wolfish amusement. "Ohhh nooo," he mocks. "So, you have three years left of bullshit spending. Though, if you were smart, you'd start saving instead of blowing it all, so by the time he cuts you off, you'd have a nice little nest egg." I huff. God, he's annoying. Not because he's wrong-he's actually alarmingly right-but because I refuse to admit it. So, I choose to ignore him completely and bend down to unzip my suitcase and try to figure out what I can transfer into the ridiculously small fanny pack. But my mind starts to spiral. Just me and Henry freaking Callahan for three whole days? That sounds crazy-and dangerous in ways I'm not sure I'm comfortable with. My whole body pulses with a mix of repressed arousal and adrenaline. Suddenly, I'm not feeling so well. And technically, this is money already spent, so it wouldn't change anything if I didn't go on this trip... "I don't think I should go," I blurt, grasping for a way out. "Look at us. We're already fighting. Three days alone? We'll end up on some true crime podcast." Henry shrugs, completely unbothered. "Suit yourself." Then, because the universe is cruel, he casually grabs his parachute backpack, strapping it over his black utility pants and long-sleeved shirt. I blink. Um...Excuse me? Why does he look like a goddamn action hero? He is giving off gritty, Mission: Impossible stuntman, or an assassin who also models on the side, vibes. If I didn't know it was Henry Callahan, I'd think a young Tom Cruise had arrived at this fucking hangar to film an action flick. Hell, even the yellow prop plane out in front of him looks like a Hollywood backdrop. My brain misfires. And his back. Holy shit, his back. The broad, muscular ridges flex as he tightens his straps, the whole "badass against a golden sun" aesthetic making my knees weak in protest. Five-years-ago Avery would have already been sprinting toward him. Hell, three-years-ago Avery would have probably thrown herself at his feet and asked him to sweep her into some ridiculous adrenaline-fueled adventure. And then there's current Avery. Avery, whose best friend is laid up puking her guts out. Whose parents are in Key West. Whose second-tier friends are all conveniently unavailable on New Years' trips of their own. Avery, who would be sitting alone in her apartment for days, doing absolutely nothing except regretting her ten-grand investment in this trip. And probably spending her late nights stalking Henry's adrenaline-junkie thirst traps on Instagram like an idiot. Ugh. "Wait!" I yell impulsively, shoving two bikinis, my toothbrush, deodorant, and a hairbrush into the stupid fanny pack and abandoning my suitcase like it's a corpse I no longer wish to claim. Henry stops at the opening of the big garage-style door, the light of the sun backing him like he's a freaking Marvel character. "I'm coming," I say begrudgingly. "Just let me go throw this bag back in my car." "Hell yeah, Ave." Henry smiles, and I can just barely make it out among his features in the shadows. I ditch my bag, run to leave my keys with the airport office so I don't do something stupid like lose them while I'm gone, and rush after my brother's superhero-looking best friend like a fool. By the time I get back inside the hangar, Henry is smiling at me like only an insane person would do when they're about to board a plane to jump out of said plane to get to their destination. "You ready to have the time of your life?" he questions and I snort. "Trust me, Ave," he adds with the kind of sexy wink I feel all the way to my toes. "You won't regret it." Famous last words. Fucking famous. Last. Words.