"That's not even a thing and you know it." She pinches my side where she knows I'm ticklish, and I crowd her against the car before she can escape, both of us laughing.
But then the laughter dies.
I've got my hands braced on either side of her, boxing her between my arms and the rental car, she's looking up at me with those wide blue eyes . . . and something shifts. Her breath snags; this barely-there stutter that sends electricity crawling up my spine.
Her cheeks flush pink, the same shade as her lips, andfuck—when did I start noticing the exact color of Ivy's lips? They're slightly parted, hovering on the edge of words that never materialize.
The parking garage shrinks around us. The fluorescent lights buzz too loud. The concrete walls press in—
SLAM.
Dad's door bangs shut, and we spring apart so fast I nearly trip over a luggage cart. Ivy suddenly becomes fascinated with rearrangingher backpack straps, gaze drilling into the floor, while I drag fingers through my hair and try to jumpstart my lungs back into a normal rhythm.
"You two coming or what?" Dad barks, already claiming his throne behind the wheel.
"Yeah, just . . ." I clear my throat. "Coming."
I shake my head, hard, as if I could physically dislodge whatever the hell just happened. Because nothing happened. We were just messing around. Same as always. That's it.
Right?
We take the back seat, letting Mom handle navigation duty up front, and there's a beat of awkwardness as we settle in. Ivy tucks herself against the far window, while I'm suddenly hyperaware of the space between us. But then Dad starts his fourth monologue about airport traffic patterns, and the weirdness evaporates under the sheer force of his complaints.
"These exits are all wrong now. They changed them," he announces, for the third time.
Ivy catches my eye and makes this tiny face—eyebrows raised, lips pressed together like she's trying not to laugh. The same expression she's been making at my dad's rants since we were sixteen.
In an instant, the tension's gone, and we're back to normal.
She wordlessly offers me one of her earbuds. The tinny sound of Taylor Swift only partially drowns out Greg's traffic manifesto, but it's better than nothing.
I take it from her. "Got 'Shake It Off' on there? Not that I care."
"Wow. Specific request." She raises an eyebrow, clearly delighted by this admission.
"It's just catchy," I mumble, ears burning. "And it helps with . . . you know, stress."
"Guess I'll keep your Swiftie expertise between us."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
And she's right. I don't.
The gravel crunches underthe SUV's tires as we pull into the vineyard, and I blink awake to golden afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. My cheek's pressed against Caleb's shoulder, and Green Day is playing through one earbud.
"Welcome back, Drool Queen." His voice rumbles through his chest.
"I do not drool," I mumble, sitting up and pulling out the earbud. "And I know for a fact I was listening to Taylor Swift when I dozed off."
"Your phone was right there. It was self-defense against another replay of 'Lavender Haze.'" He grins. "And you definitely drool. Like a sleepy puppy."
I pinch his arm, hard enough to make him yelp.
"Children," Dottie calls from the front seat, but I can hear the smile in her voice. "Behave."
The estate unfolds like a southern romance cover. Whitewashed columns rise two stories high, supporting a wraparound porchcomplete with rocking chairs and hanging ferns. Twinkle lights adorn the ancient oak trees, their branches draped with dogwood blossoms swaying in the late spring breeze. Beyond the main house, neat rows of grapevines stretch toward the Blue Ridge Mountains, their fresh spring leaves a vibrant green against the red clay soil.
