Ethan had been planning this for three days.
I knew because he'd left printouts around the villa, brochures for a charter company, a hand-drawn map of Biscayne Bay with circles and arrows, and a packing list that included "sunscreen, towels, and a positive attitude" which Nia had crossed out and replaced with "sunscreen, towels, and realistic expectations."
"We're renting a boat," Ethan announced at breakfast, slapping the brochure on the table with the confidence of a man who believed that the announcement was the same as the execution.
"We're renting a yacht," Isabella corrected, then she examined the brochure and frowned. "This is a forty-two-foot catamaran. That's not a boat. That's a toy."
"It has a bathroom."
"It has a head. It's called a head. And forty-two feet is not a yacht."
"It's big enough."
"For what? A cocktail party for six? We're fourteen, Ethan."
