"Amara."

"Five more minutes," I mumble, brushing off the hand on my shoulder. I can't open my eyes. If I open my eyes—

Too late. There it is: the mother of all headaches.

The voice—such a lovely, enticing voice—chuckles. "I have pineapple juice."

That gets my attention. I crack open an eye, trying to reorient myself.

Nicholai crouches into my line of sight. His black hair looks as ruffled as I've ever seen it. And that sleepy smile of his...well. I've woken up to worse sights. Far worse.

His face dredges up a few bleary memories: lining up shots behind the bar, retreating belowdecks to escape the crowd...

Oh, God. Lawrence.

A cool breeze kisses my face. I shift, and the bench beneath me groans in protest. I must have fallen asleep outside, somewhere on the main deck—and fully clothed, too. I smack my lips and grimace at the bitter taste of tequila that lingers on my tongue.

"Good morning." Nicholai holds a glass of pineapple juice in one hand and a silver flask in the other.

"How are you still drinking?" I croak.

"The hangover only hits if you stop." He lifts the flask up to my nose. "Would you like—"

I bolt upright, turning my face away. The world tilts on its axis. "Do you have a death wish?"

"You're full of questions this morning."

I tear my attention away from him to get my bearings. The sky is still black, with stars glittering high overhead. But a spot of pink light now paints the distant horizon, hovering against a calm sea.

I stretch out my stiff muscles with a grimace. Falling asleep here, beneath the stars, seemed like such a good idea at three in the morning. Then again, almost anything seems like a good idea at three in the morning.

Nicholai clears his throat.

I turn a baleful eye on him. "What time is it?"

"More questions," he murmurs, straightening to his full height. He offers me the pineapple juice. This time, I accept it.

"Reasonable questions." I savor the taste of pineapple as it coats my tongue, chasing away the lingering hint of alcohol. "Thanks."

"She does have manners." He motions to the staircase. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" Another question. Sue me.

He's already halfway across the deck. "We're going to watch the sunrise," he calls over his shoulder.

I groan but follow him. I have a feeling this side quest is about the list, but I can't just now remember the particulars.

We proceed belowdecks in silence, yawning every other step. Nicholai polishes off the contents of his flask with a quick toss of his head—and then withdraws another, larger flask from his back pocket.

"Alcoholic," I mutter.

"Pot." He points at me from over his shoulder. "Kettle."

"Ouch." He's got me there.

We reach the back of the impossibly large vessel after a short eternity. I can feel the soft hum of the engine through the soles of my shoes, lulling me back to sleep. Ahead of us, a cleary-eyed crew member stands at attention, a yellow jet ski by his side.

"Mr. Ivanov." The crew member steps to the side. "She's all yours."

"Nicholai," I hiss as understanding dawns.

"Come on." He strides forward and mounts the jet ski from the lower platform, near the water's edge, as if he's done this a thousand times before. Which he probably has. A smile curves his lips as he pats the seat behind him.

I sigh. It's not like I can say no. "Fuck it." I follow his lead and climb onto the jet ski, suddenly very aware of my morning breath. "I can't believe this."

"Hold on tight," he cautions me, sounding absolutely chipper about the possibility of our imminent death.

I'm not normally this dramatic, but neither of us is in any state to drive. I tense as we settle into the water. "Are you sober enough for this?"

"Probably not."

"Oh, good." I wrap my arms around his waist and try to dull my enthusiasm at our close proximity. "I was starting to get worried."

Nicholai's laugh reverberates through my fingers. We ease away from the boat, slowly at first. I relax my death-grip on Nicholai's waist.

Until he shouts, "Hold on tight!"

Fuck. I grab hold of him just in time. We jerk forward. I may or may not scream. His wild laughter rings through the morning air, warming my bones.

"I'm going to kill you!" I shout in his ear. I can't see his face, but somehow, I know he's grinning like a fool.

I can't help myself. A broad smile splits my face as we take off toward the shore, the city lights glittering in the dark. Sea water sprays our faces. Nicholai's hair brushes against my cheek as I press closer to him, peering over his shoulder to watch our progress.

"Still going to kill me?" He turns his head to call the question over his shoulder, bringing our faces dangerously close together. My lips brush his cheek and I pull back, startled.

"Maybe," I say, voice cracking. But the words are carried away on the wind, and the moment passes.

The waves are mild this early in the morning, but we bounce along nonetheless. Eventually, excitement gives way to nausea. My stomach is churning by the time we approach the marina. Nicholai seems unruffled, navigating the jet ski past sleek catamarans and a row of pontoons, the engine a soft, barely perceptible purr. Parking the jet ski proves to be a far more difficult endeavor than flying over open water. I recite a colorful string of curses as we bump into the dock, bobbing uncontrollably.

Nicholai hauls himself onto the dock, nimble despite the booze. I think he might leave me there as his idea of a grand joke, but then he offers me his hand and lifts me onto dry land, setting me on my feet. The world spins, off-kilter after hours at sea.

"Give me that," I mutter, slipping the flask out of his back pocket. I unscrew the cap and swallow as much as I can stomach. "Vodka again. Blech."

"Sorry. I was all out of warm beer." We stumble down the dock, alone save for a handful of early morning risers already shuffling aboard their vessels.

His shoulder bumps mine. "Can you walk in a straight line?" I ask, exasperated.

He considers this. "No. I don't think so."

I resist the urge to pepper him with questions as we veer off the dock and onto the sidewalk, which curves lazily along the shoreline. Palm trees sway overhead, dancing in the early morning breeze. Soon enough, we've left the marina behind.

It takes several long, sweaty minutes—hangovers and exercise do not mix—for us to reach our destination. I have no idea what we're looking for, but Nicholai eventually waves me off the sidewalk, indicating that we should approach the shoreline. Too tired to talk, I just nod and follow his lead.

At long last, we settle down on the sand, our breath ragged. Nicholai kicks off his shoes and socks, and I do the same. We're too tired, too hungover, too hungry to be anything but shameless.

I fall back against the sand. I'll worry about my hair later. "Ugh."

"Ugh," Nicholai agrees. I hear something rattle, and know he's finished off the last of his (second) flask.

I blow out a breath. "So. Where are we?"

"The beach."

"As soon as I catch my breath, I'm going to pinch you."

"A most dire threat." He leans back on his hands, gaze contemplative as he stares at the distant horizon. "Hermosa Beach."

My home turf. I frown, glancing around blearily. Now that I'm paying attention, I can see the familiar outline of the pier to our left. "Why Hermosa Beach?"

"It's on the list. Item number four. Watch the sunrise at Hermosa Beach," he recites. "My brothers and I used to come here when we were children."

"Oh." I lift myself onto my elbows. "What was item number three?"

"The birthday party."

While he watches the ocean, I watch him, admiring his profile. Alexei may share his brother's coloring—the dark hair and blue eyes and fair complexion—but he doesn't have his striking bone structure. No. Alexei's features are more delicate. From their mother, maybe. Nicholai...

Nicholai looks more like his father. They share the same nose, the same jaw, the same strong brow. Thankfully, that's where the similarities end.

I hope she has more luck than the last one. Poor girl.

"Nicholai?"

"Yes?" His eyes don't move from the horizon. The sky is beginning to lighten, chasing away the stars with hues of pink and gold.

"Can I ask you something?" I pause. "And if you say you just did, I'll—"

"Pinch me?"

"Precisely."

"Ask away."

I hesitate a moment, lowering myself back down onto the sand. I gaze up at the ever-lightening sky. "Your last secretary..."

A heavy pause. "That wasn't a question."

"What happened to her? Your father, he...mentioned her, that day. In the kitchen." I cross my arms to hide my shiver.

Nicholai rubs his jaw. I realize in that moment how very tired he looks. Beaten down. "I don't know."

I sit up again. "You don't—"

"She left." He shrugs and pulls his knees to his chest. "We were...involved. Father was displeased. So she quit."

"That's it?"

He smiles then—a small, secretive thing. "What did you expect?"

I look away, pinning my eyes to the horizon. Orange beams of light hover over the waterline. I pull my knees to my chest, mimicking his pose. Our shoulders brush. "I don't know."

We sit like that, shoulder-to-shoulder, until the sun breaks over the horizon, with the taste of vodka on our lips and the feel of sand between our toes.