We both roll our eyes at the same time, perfectly in sync, like we've trained for this level of mutual exasperation.
"Sam," I say, "don't let me stop you from doing your civic duty."
She blinks, finally tearing her eyes off Elijah. "My what?"
"You know," I tease, "keeping your captain's groupies in line." I nod toward the patio. "If I don't feel safe, I'll just go upstairs and hang out in Zach's room until he gets back."
For a split second, Sam looks at me like I just solved world hunger. Her face lights up with the most dramaticaha!expression.
"That—" she says, snapping her fingers, "—is genius."
And before I can even respond, she hands me the drink she'd been holding like a weapon and straightens her jacket.
"Stay here. If any of those girls even look at you funny, call for backup."
And just like that, Sam spins on her heel and marches toward the patio, all fire and fury, while I just stand there laughing under my breath—because honestly, watching her go full guard dog mode never gets old.
But the second she's gone, a weird chill crawls up my spine.
It's that prickly, someone's-watching-you feeling that makes your stomach tighten. I glance around—and sure enough, there are eyes.Lotsof them.
Some people are looking at me with recognition—like,oh, that's the girl from last night.Others, mostly girls, are eyeing me like I personally offended their ancestors. Whispers ripple across the room, but they're not exactly subtle.
The kind of half-covered mouths and side-glances that screammean-girl conference in progress.
Yep. These must be the ones Zach warned Sam about.
"Shit," I mutter when I see them straighten up, heels clicking, all synchronized like they just rehearsed this moment. They start walking toward me, and I instantly regret telling Sam to go play hockey-house security guard.
I look away fast, pretending to check my phone, then make a beeline for the stairs.
But before I can make it three steps, they're there.
Three of them, blocking my path like a human wall of perfume and judgment. One's got her arms crossed, another's resting a manicured hand on her hip, and the third is giving me the kind of once-over usually reserved for bugs that accidentally land on your food.
Their expressions are all the same—mocking, smug, like I don't belong here.
I bite back the urge to scoff, resisting the eye roll fighting its way out.
God, they evenlooklike Cici—the queen of high school cruelty herself.
If this were still high school, I'd probably just shrink into some dark corner and pray they'd lose interest—stay quiet, stay invisible, stay safe.
But this isn't high school anymore.
I don't do hiding.
So instead, I square my shoulders, cross my arms just like they do, and lift an eyebrow in my bestresting bitch faceimpression. Let them look. Let them whisper. I'm not seventeen anymore—and I'm definitely not scared of girls like them.
I'm bracing for whatever snide comment they're about to throw when—
"Care!"
I turn at the sound of my name, instantly recognizing the warm, familiar voice. Adam's heading straight toward me, grin wide, beer bottle dangling casually from his hand.
"Adam?"
The mean-girl trio immediately falters. One fake-laughs, another pretends to check her phone, and before I know it, they've scattered—like pigeons after a loud noise.
