Holly chokes on her cider.
Chance lets out a low, knowing whistle—a bold choice for a man currently smuggling my entire emotional scrapbook in his pants like contraband at airport security.
Seth looks delighted. “And we’re off!”
FreezeFrame over there finally reboots and pours my drink—just in time for me to dead ass stare him in the eye while I take the slowest, pettiest sip of my life.
“I’ll cover you,” I murmur. “Since you clearly want in on the game but can’t drink on the clock. Tragic, really.”
Everett’s throat works in one tight swallow at the exact moment a muscle ticks along his jaw—the kind of double tell a man gives when he’s holding back ten years of words he’s never got to say out loud.
Aaaanndddd, The Throat Bob of Doom has entered the chat.
Holly clutches my arm and leans in, full secret-sister energy.
“Yup. That’s the ‘ten years later and still whipped’ swallow.”
Charlie jumps in, bouncing on her stool—way too excited for whatever she’s about to unleash.
“Never have I ever watched a man pretend he’s over someone while staring at her like she’s the last donut in the box.”
The ladies all go still.
But Nick—poor, oblivious-to-this-history Nick—opens his mouth.
“Don’t you mean, ‘Never have I ever watched someone pretend they’re over someone while staring at them like they’re the last donut in the box?’”
Holly snorts. Chance coughs. And Everett’s knuckles go white around the bottle he’s gripping way too hard.
Good.
Ilift my glass and I take a drink. A deep one. Deep throated that mother—okay, I might need to slow it down a touch. Especially since I haven’t deep throated anything since—never mind.
Everett’s eyes flick toward me—quick, sharp, scorching—but he looks away just as fast.
“Next,” I say, because stopping now means feeling things.
Chance picks one, brows raised, a devious smirk on his lips like he’s about to test the structural integrity of the entire evening.
“Never have I ever… wished two people would just tell the damn truth.”
Charlie chokes on air. Talented.
Holly snaps her head toward Chance so fast she might need chiropractic care.
Nick whispers, “Oh my God,” like he’s watching a slow-motion car crash he suddenly understands.
Uncle Seth slings an arm around my back and mutters, “Finally,” under his breath with a delighted lilt.
But Everett?—
Everett’s reaction is a whole damn novel.
His shoulders lock.
His grip tightens on the glass he’s polishing. A muscle drags along his jawline like he’s grinding down a decade of swallowed words.
His eyes flick to me.
