“I didn’t know they were here, so I came over to see if you wanted to do something. You were all in the pool. I was standing on the back patio, but none of you saw. You were talking about girls . . . about me.”

My stomach knots itself and my eyes drag closed. Because I remember now.

“They said I was weird. That I smelled weird . . .”

My head snaps to her. “You didn’t.”

Her voice is softer than a whisper.

“And they said I was ugly. That they’d have to put a bag over my head if they wanted to—”

“Kennedy . . .” I beg.

Because I want to kill something. Pulverize something. I want to reach into her mind and wrench those memories away so she’ll never have to think about them ever again.

“I left after that.”

I grasp her shoulder. “They were assholes, okay? Stupid and cruel little dicks to say those things. I never said them.”

“No, I know that.” Then some iron comes into her voice. “You never said anything. After they were gone, you came to my house and we hung out . . . just like normal. Because I was good enough to be your friend—as long as no one else was around to see it.”

All I can do is stare at her, pull the words from deep inside, and give them to her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I was a jerk and a pussy for caring what they thought. But I liked you. Blond or brunette, designer clothes or a trash bag—I wanted to be close to you. Even then.”

When her eyes dip, I lift her chin. “If I could go back and change all of that, I would. But this is where we are now. We have to move forward. I’m in love with you. And if it takes awhile for you to wrap your head around that—to wrap your heart around it—then I’ll wait. Because you’re worth waiting for. You always were.”

• • •

Things are upbeat again between us by the time we walk into my parents’ house, holding hands and heading up to my room for a shower.

Until we come to a screeching halt in the foyer.

Because standing there, staring at our entwined hands like it’s a living, breathing miracle—is my mother.

“Hello, darling!” If she smiles any bigger, her face will break in half. “Kennedy, dearest, I can’t tell you what a joy it is to see you again. Here. With Brent.”

“Hi, Mrs. Mason—it’s great to see you too.”

There’s hugs and cheek kisses all around.

I try my damnedest not to sound as disappointed as I feel. “What are you doing here, Mom? I thought you guys were in Saratoga.”

“Your father’s back was acting up, so we had to come home.”

That’s when my father walks past the open doorway of the library, on the phone and pacing, and his back seems just dandy to me.

My eyes narrow on Henderson. And I smell a traitor.

“Did you two have a nice day?” my mother asks.

“Yeah, it was great,” I tell her. “We took the boat out. We were just going to head up and grab a shower.”

So much for christening the ballroom with a blow job.

“That’s nice,” she coos softly. “In case you had planned on other arrangements, I think it’s best that you both spend the night in Brent’s room. And use his bathroom as well—the other rooms in the house, unfortunately, aren’t prepared for guests.”

Poor Henderson looks down right insulted. “Beg your pardon.”

My mother waves her hand, shushing him. “They’re not prepared, Henderson. And that is that.”

Now she’s just creeping me out. It’s one thing if I want to screw Kennedy ten different ways. But to think of my mother cheering us on—sitting on the sidelines with a flag in one hand and a foam cock in the other—is just wrong.

“Okay. Thanks, Mom.”

I lead Kennedy up the stairs. But we’re not in my room for more than two minutes when her phone pings with an incoming message.

She sits on the end of my bed, reading it. From my swiveling desk chair I tap my forehead like a mind reader. “Wait—don’t tell me. Because my mother couldn’t stop herself from telling your mother we’re here—it’s a message from her. And we’ve been summoned to your house for dinner tonight.”

Kennedy sighs and shows me her phone. “You should take your act to Vegas—you’ll be a hit.”

Then she throws herself back onto my bed and blows a frustrated raspberry at the ceiling.

• • •

Dinner at the Randolphs’ is a formal affair. The men wear suits, the ladies cocktail dresses. I had appropriate attire at my parents’, and my mother loaned Kennedy a little black dress she picked up years ago in Paris. I’ll forever be grateful that it still had the tags on—that my mother never wore it. Otherwise, the massive erection it caused when Kennedy walked out of the dressing room could’ve been weird.

The dining room table is long enough to seat thirty and fully appointed. Without the classical music playing in the background, the room would’ve been awkwardly silent through the first three courses.

Because our parents aren’t talking—they’re all just kind of watching us. Expectantly.

Finally, Kennedy’s father attempts normal conversation.

“How’s your Nevada case coming along, princess?”

I frown at her and whisper, “He has a nickname for you? Why does he get to have a nickname and I don’t?”