Wealth, status, and beauty define the elite of Kensington Prep. Every one of them possesses the ability to get away with anything and everything they want, unscathed and remain as privileged and superior as ever.
But Amory Scout decides that tim...
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Phineas's father's yacht has just been recently redone so it's finally ready for us to take it out to Ibiza for this coming New Years Eve. After a quiet and uneventful Christmas with Hadley and her family, I set out on the 28th by the docks with two Louis Vuitton luggage full of cocktail party dresses.
Orson and I make plans to meet up together before we head to the terminal. My cab hurtles recklessly up Madison Avenue, past Zitomer, Agnès B., and the Three Guys coffee shop where all the Kensington and Constance girls gather after school, turn east on Eighty-second Street, and finally pull up in front of the lobby of the Peninsula.
As usual, no one does Christmas quite like New York and the Peninsula is no exception. The whole ceilings are decked out in fairy lights of red and green and Christmas decorations, such as celebratory ornaments, wreaths with extravagant silk ribbons and pinecones, and snow-dusted mistletoe. A towering Christmas tree glitters in the midst of it all as I exit out of the car and launch myself into Orson's arms.
"How was Christmas?" I purr in his ear, putting the effect of suggestion in my tone.
"Dry without you," he smirks, eyes taking in the cobalt blue halter-neck Gaultier outfit. Even with the oversized black MaxMara swing coat, he could still notice how the dress hugs every curve of my body.
"No doubt about it."
His hand slides down my waist and I feel him squeeze a cheek. I giggle, "Later, we got a yacht to catch."
"Okay, we'll take my car."
We hop into his silver BMW SUV with tinted windows and as the sedan begins onto the West Side Highway, Orson fills up a flute of Moet for me.
"I hear Phineas's yacht has been rebuilt by Espen. Lürssen, right?" I ask Orson.
"No, Fincantieri actually. His dad didn't want any of those nosy Norweigian journalists scrutinizing his every move. The Italians are willing to turn their head around, for the right price of course."
At Fifty-second Street, the car merges into one of the exit lanes leading toward the Manhattan Cruise Terminal, where the cruise ships that visit New York all docked. Moored at Pier 88 is a superyacht that looks like it has at least five levels of decks.
Holy shit, I think, staring up at the gargantuan vessel, which sparkles as shards of sunlight reflecting off the water dance across its midnight-blue hull. We climb up the gangway and enter the grand foyer of the yacht, a soaring atrium with a circular glass elevator in the middle that looks like it could have been stolen from an Apple store.
Two extremely tan, extremely blond women of Amazonian proportions greet us when we arrive with two more glasses of Veuve Clicquot. Dressed in identical outfits of figure-hugging navy-blue cashmere sweaters, immaculately pressed white linen slacks, and white nautical caps with gold piping on the brims, they look like slutty sailor girls on a bachelor yacht party.
