Halloween is Bridget's favorite holiday, so almost by default it’s one of mine too. I mean, I was more of a fan when it meant free candy and not sexy barely-there costumes, but still—playing pretend as a grownup is fun…usually, anyway.

"Oh my god, is that it?" Bridget leans over and whispers into my ear, pointing toward a massive, sleek white yacht at the end of the pier.

I swat her hand down. "Stop pointing, it's embarrassing."

"Your boyfriend is rich," she comments, gaping.

"It's not his boat… and he's not my boyfriend," I qualify begrudgingly, because really, I would love it if Patrick were in fact my boyfriend. But that's one of those things that's most often decided by a truly awkward conversation or a drunken slip up—either way, it hasn’t happened yet. We've had three dates since the whole groping incident in the park, which makes this the second longest relationship I've ever had—but still, until he says it, I don't want to think it.

Bridge just rolls her eyes. "Well, none of my other friends have access to multi-multi-multi-million dollar ships for parties. Although," she pauses, winking at me, "after tonight maybe they will."

Oh, right. I forgot to mention that Tim, the naked man, never called Bridget again, so she's flying solo for the evening—not that it dampens her style at all. Ollie, on the other hand, should be arriving any second with some girl named Aubrey. Not that I care or anything.

"Are you sure I don't look ridiculous?" I ask Bridget for maybe the twentieth time in the past hour.

She shakes her head. "I'm not responding to that question anymore."

"Bridge…" I whine.

Nothing.

God, so stubborn.

I flatten my hands against my stomach, running my fingers over the spandex that feels painted onto my body, and pull the fake leather jacket tighter around my stomach. Usually for Halloween, I take the easy road—Mary Poppins, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Dorothy. You know, the sweet, rated-PG look. Well, after Bridget's prodding and constant reminders that we may never find ourselves on a yacht ever again, I decided to step it up a notch. Or, well, she decided for me—lending me her clothes, curling my hair for about an hour, and letting me borrow her fiery red lipstick. Have you guessed yet? I'm Sandy, from Grease. And not the buttoned sweater, white sneakers, headband Sandy that I would usually play, but final scene Sandy—stripper heels and all.

And oh man, do I feel ridiculous.

I peek at Bridge, holding in a sigh. She's as confident as ever, marching forward, eyes gleaming as they stare straight ahead at the yacht. Then again, she looks amazing—as per usual. Every year, Bridget uses some painting as inspiration for her costume. One year, she pulled off a Picasso look with some bizarre face paint that looked a little too realistic, like ear for a nose sort of stuff. Another year, she was one of those pop art comic book girls. But I can't help noticing that this year, rather than over-the-top face paint, she went a little sexier too. Madame X is her inspiration—I wasn't sure what painting it was so she had to show me. Apparently, back in the day it caused quite the scandal. All I know is that she's wearing a super tight, super low-cut black gown with sleeves that drape off her shoulders and a slit up her thigh that I sort of think wasn't in the original piece. Her bright red hair is pulled back and up into a bun, leaving a lot of cream skin exposed. Like I said, she looks fabulous.

"Name?" A man in an official-looking white button down asks as we approach the yacht.

"I'm Skylar Quinn and this is Bridget McDonough, we're friends of Patrick's," I murmur, fighting back a sudden bout of nerves that maybe we were accidently left off the list. Or not so accidentally left off…but that's just ridiculous. Right?

His eyes scan his clipboard and a few seconds later, he checks off two names from his list, looking up with a smile. I relax my shoulders, releasing the tension in my muscles, but then his gaze flicks to our feet. What now?

"No shoes on board. There's a basket where you can store them for the night," he says and points to the right.

I pause.

Did I hear that correctly? I'm not allowed to wear my heels? Hallelujah! Can I kiss him? I mean, I know I can't, but the urge to throw my arms around his shoulders and plant a big fat kiss right on his lips surges through my system. Quick as I can, I unstrap the four-inch death traps and free my aching toes, and then I sigh, a warm and joyous sound. Being barefoot is glorious.

The crewmember is ignorant of my sudden bliss and just keeps talking. "If you take a left at the top of the ramp, there's a staircase that will lead you to the second floor where the party is being held."

"Thanks," Bridget and I chime, and then look at each other, mouthing second floor, and arching our eyebrows with idiotic grins. Strains of music and the rumble of conversation guide us around the back of the boat to the gleaming white grand staircase partially hidden by orange and black streamers.

Bubbles of anticipation pop beneath my skin, putting me in the party mood, and an unusual bout of optimism shimmers to life in the back of my mind. I have an unclassified but really fun boy-thing, I have my best friend, and I have a once in a lifetime experience cruising the Hudson River on a yacht. Maybe I was dreading tonight for nothing…

"Skylar!"

Then again, maybe not.

I cringe, recognizing the voice, and turn. "Blythe, how are you?"

Immediately, her eyes scan up and down my costume, burning with judgment. And I think mine might do the same. For a second, I really have no idea what she is, except maybe a Victoria's Secret model. But above the booty shorts and bustier, I notice a little pair of ears. A cat. Why am I not surprised? She does have claws after all.

"How adorable, you're Sandy," she says in too sweet of a voice, stepping closer to run a finger over my jacket, instantly able to tell that it's fake leather. "I was Sandy for Halloween back when I was fifteen. Of course, not for the whole night. Just long enough to get past my mother, but then I changed into a real costume when I met up with my friends. Not that you need to change or anything. You look really cute."

How unusual. A backhanded compliment from Blythe. I open my mouth to respond, but Bridget beats me to it.

"I really love your costume too," she says, copying Blythe's tone almost exactly. "Considering how objectified female bodies are in the mainstream media, I think it's really brave to come dressed as a porn star. I really appreciate the political statement you're making."

I bite my lips, while my cheeks puff with contained mirth.

Hold it.

Hold it.

I breathe deeply, swallowing the sounds back down.

"And who are you?" Blythe asks, glaring at Bridge, crossing her arms.

"Bridget McDonough, Skye's best friend," she says sweetly, still not giving up the act, and offers her hand.

"Blythe Keaton."

They shake. And just like that, a new pair of archenemies is formed.

But I don't have time to separate the two of them before the catfight begins, because a pair of muscular arms wraps around my torso, pulling me back into a firm chest, and soft lips come to rest a teasing distance away from my neck.

"You look great," Patrick whispers, breath tickling my skin, brushing the sensitive spot below my ears. A tremor races down my spine and spirals back up again, deliciously hot.