We ignore her. I set a box of tiny drink umbrellas on the counter—our arsenal. Nash flips the neon tiki sign, the words Welcome to Club Flamingo pulsing in hot-pink.
Frankie covers her mouth. “Oh. My. God.”
Sloane mutters, “They didn’t.”
But we did.
Candace storms behind the bar like she’s ready to stab someone with a pina colada straw. “Absolutely not! This is my bar! I just got it organized!”
“You mean made it boring,” Knox says without looking up.
Gasps. Snorts. A couple of traitorous cackles. Candace turns her glare on him. If looks could kill, Knox would be a chalk outline.
I lounge against the counter with a slow and wicked grin. “New policy,” I announce. “Want a drink? Wear a lei.”
Silence hangs for a beat.
Then Ruby bends in half laughing. “You idiots. You planned a prank that forces us to accessorize? Have you met us?!”
The girls exchange a glance, and the air shifts. Mischief. Mayhem. Victory.
Darla picks a hot-pink lei from Kyle’s pile and slips it over her head like a queen accepting her crown. “I look adorable.”
Frankie grabs two and tosses one to Maggie. Sloane sighs dramatically but caves, settling one around her neck.
Candace holds out. Arms crossed. Jaw ticking.
Darla nudges her gently. “It’s one night. Flow with it.”
Candace inhales through her nose, then rips a purple lei from Nash’s hand and shoves it over her head like she’s being arrested by vacation. The boys cheer. She flips us off. Both hands. Then slams a rum bottle onto the counter.
“Fine! Fruity drinks only! If it has an umbrella, I’m pouring it!”
The women erupt like she just ended Prohibition.
“AND—” she adds, pointing directly at me, “if you want anything stronger than pineapple juice, go whine to the palm tree.”
I laugh so hard my ribs ache. “Worth it.”
Ruby cranks the music up loud enough that even Malachi’s foot taps. The yard starts to sway, hips rolling despite themselves.
Malachi lifts his beer toward me in a wordless salute.
Round two. Not bad.
Darla slips to my side, her body warm against mine. “You know this means you’re losing, right?” she murmurs.
I wrap an arm around her waist, lowering my voice to her ear. “Nah. War’s just getting started.”
Maggie comes out with the big bowl of potato salad like she’s presenting a national treasure. James follows behind her, beaming like he made the damn thing.
“Cold and perfect,” Maggie says, setting it down on the table. “Try to use a plate this time, Nash.”
Nash digs in first, takes one slow, thoughtful taste… then shrugs. “Not bad,” he says. “But my mom’s was better.”
Every female head in a ten-foot radius snaps toward him. James doesn’t miss a beat. He grabs a spoon, takes a huge bite, and nods solemnly.
“Yeah. My mama’s had that magic.”
