“You’re staying at Cañaveral?” Indiana frowns. “That’s a long hike in the dark.”

“Change of plans.” Who needs room service and real beds? “We’ll rent hammocks and stay here.”

“And you just decided that? For all your friends?”

“I always do.”

The song ends and he steps back to look down at me. “Every now and then, you should let people make up their own minds.” His gaze holds a strangely magnetic challenge. “That’s how adventures begin.”

Before I can figure out how much of that is innuendo and just how much adventure he might be up for, Holden materializes at my side.

“I won!” He less than subtly shows me the joint hidden in his palm—evidently the spoils from his cornhole battle.

“Congratulations.” I glance at the soldiers gathered near the restaurant, but they aren’t watching.

Holden’s gaze hardens as he looks at Indiana. He lays a possessive hand on my arm. “Dance with me.”

Before I can remind my boyfriend that he doesn’t own me, Indiana tips his straw hat, then heads down the beach to join the cornhole game.

Holden and I dance with Pen and the rest of our friends. But my gaze keeps wandering back to the salsa-dancing cowboy.

83 HOURS EARLIER

MADDIE

“You do know that the Palmyra ruins in Syria are thousands of years old?” Benard says. “Destroying a community’s history does just as much damage as destroying their homes and businesses. It’s a blow straight to the heart of the people.”

I sit back in my chair while I consider his point, then lean in to take a sip of my bright-red cocktail. I’m still not convinced, but Benard’s eyes and the beach, both less than two feet away, are a perfect view. And a perfect setting for a debate.

“Of course,” I concede. “But do you really think rebuilding some statues—”

“And temples!”

“Fine, rebuilding statues and temples will truly help people who have been displaced by years of war? Don’t you think they’re more concerned with necessities like food, shelter, and safety?”

He takes a drink from his beer, but his gaze never leaves my face. “I’m not saying those things aren’t important, but think about the message rebuilding cultural symbols sends to the terrorists who destroyed them. ‘Whatever you do, whatever pain you cause, you can’t destroy our culture. You can’t destroy who we are.’” He lifts one brow at me, punctuating his point. “That’s pretty powerful, n’est-ce pas?”

“Yes, but what good will these symbols do, if the people you’re building them for are dying of hunger and exposure?”

Milo chuckles. “You are not what we expected.”

“Then you should reassess your expectations.” I give them a half smile. Whatever is in this drink has definitely upped my sass factor. “D’accord?” My French accent is terrible—it sounds like I’m speaking Spanish—but I don’t care.

Benard grins at my effort. “Okay, d’accord. But surely you agree that the media should dedicate more coverage to the problems people are faced with every day in a war zone?”

Hot and intellectually engaging? I’d swoon if it weren’t cheesy.

Milo lifts his empty bottle. “I believe la mademoiselle needs another drink.”

I glance down and am surprised to notice I’ve nearly finished my cocktail. And the sun is setting.

“À votre service!” Benard gives me a brief bow, and as they wind their way through the now-crowded restaurant for another round, I realize I’m buzzing.

Genesis and her entourage have been all over the world, yet I’ve never heard them debate anything of more significance than whether the shopping is better in Milan or Paris.

“Maddie? Is that you?”

I turn to find a boy in neon orange swimming trunks and a faded tee sitting at the table behind me. I recognize him, but at first I can’t put a name to his face, because his face doesn’t belong in Colombia. It belongs in Miami.

“It’s me.” He lays one hand over his chest, as if that will help. “Luke Hazelwood, from your calculus class.”

“Oh, right.” Seeing him here is disorienting. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He shrugs with a glance at the last half of a sandwich on the plate in front of him. “Eating dinner. It’s this habit I have.”

“No, what are you doing in Colombia?” Parque Tayrona isn’t a typical American spring break destination—not that Luke is the party type.

Luke resettles his scruffy baseball cap over a headful of brown curls. “I’m on vacation.” He shrugs. “My parents are snorkeling.”

Of course he’s traveling with his parents.

Though to be fair, if my uncle hadn’t offered Ryan and me seats on his jet, we’d be at home with our mom right now. Swimming in our apartment complex’s concrete pool.

“I saw you from behind, but I wasn’t sure that was you until I noticed your arm.”

Humiliation warms my cheeks. My hand slides over the jagged pink line of scar tissue on my left triceps.

Two seconds with Luke and I’m flashing back to the second worst night of my life.

Maybe he’d like to bring up my dad’s death too?

“Not that the scar’s your defining characteristic. You’re definitely better known for your—”

I open my eyes to find him blushing furiously beneath the brim of his cap. His gaze drops from my face, and when he sees that I’m wearing a bikini, he looks away again, and his flush deepens.

Do I look this awkward to Genesis and her friends?

Luke’s flush finally fades and he makes another valiant effort at communication. “You’re not going to drink that, are you?”

My hand tightens around my nearly empty cup. “It’s just one drink.”

“I mean that one.” He looks at something over my shoulder, and I turn to see Benard and Milo heading toward us with my second cocktail and two beer bottles. Luke glances at my insulin pump, and I bristle again.

“What do you know about it?” I already have a brother, mother, and grandmother looking over my shoulder. I don’t need some boy from my math class telling me what to do.