"What's wrong with a little flirting?" she asks innocently. "It'll only make this more believable, and we're about to go to the rehearsal dinner. The pressure's on." She winks. “Besides, I’m already in your bed.”
I smirk but don’t answer while I wait for her to put on her shoes. Deep down, part of me likes the attention. It's been years since I felt anything physical around a woman, and maybe she's right—what's wrong with a little flirting?
14
BLAIR
Countless tiny white bulbs weave through the oak branches above us, creating a canopy of stars that twinkle against the darkening sky. The effect is breathtaking—like dining under a constellation.
Four massive barbecue grills are stationed around the perimeter of our dining area, each one tended by a different man who clearly takes his grilling responsibilities seriously. Bill Barnes commands the largest grill, flipping steaks. Beside him, Liv's Uncle Pete, who I met thirty minutes ago, handles the fish station. The other two grills are manned by neighbors whose names have completely escaped me in the whirlwind of introductions.
The smell is incredible—smoky meat, grilled vegetables, and the lingering scent of charcoal mixing with the evening air.
Abundance is the word that springs to mind. The table before us is completely covered with dishes—salads in every color imaginable, baskets of cornbread wrapped in checkered cloth, corn on the cob stacked like golden logs, and pitchers of iced tea. Behind the table is an old bathtub someone brought over earlier, filled with ice water and bottles of beer and white wine.
Conversations overlap and weave around each other, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional shout across the table to someone sitting too far away to hear properly. These are people who've known each other for years, maybe decades, and the comfort level shows. They tease each other mercilessly, finish each other's stories, and reference shared memories.
They say when you come into a lot of money your world becomes bigger. But really, it doesn't. Your real world becomes much, much smaller. When you take away the people who are your friends because of your money, when you take out your countless new contacts that only want to talk about business deals and investment opportunities, and your best friend who you hardly see anymore because he moved to Napa, there's very little realness left. And despite my nerves and discomfort over the lying, I'm enjoying this gathering. It sure beats my repetitive empty days of going for a run, checking my investments, and having dinner with venture capitalists who only care about my portfolio. It makes me miss my family, and I remind myself to go and see them as soon as we're done here.
The pressure really is on now. I'm the woman who supposedly managed to capture Olivia Barnes' heart. Every conversation feels like a test, every question a potential landmine.
The introductions have been a blur of names and faces that I'm struggling to keep straight. Everyone wants to shake my hand, everyone has questions, and everyone seems delighted that Liv has finally brought someone home.
"So you're the mysterious Sailor we've been hearing about!" This comes from a woman seated three chairs down from me. She has to raise her voice to be heard over the general din. "Olivia's been so secretive about you, we were starting to think you were made up!"
If only she knew.
"Well, here I am," I say with what I hope is a charming smile. "Flesh and blood."
This draws laughter from the people within earshot, and I feel some of the tension in my shoulders ease slightly. At least they seem to like me.
Nearby, twelve children ranging in age from maybe four to twelve are seated at their own smaller table, completely absorbed in their own little world. A young woman—the local babysitter hired for tonight—moves between them with the patience of a saint, cutting meat and fish for the younger ones, refilling lemonade glasses, and diplomatically settling disputes.
Under the table, I feel Liv's leg bouncing with nervous energy. Her smile has been fixed in place since we sat down—perfectly pleasant but slightly strained around the edges. She's been fielding questions about our relationship, her work, and our future plans with the skill of a diplomat, but I can tell the pressure is getting to her.
I reach over and take her hand under the table, our fingers intertwining. She glances at me with surprise, then something that might be gratitude.
"How are you holding up?" I murmur in her ear, low enough that only she can hear.
"I’m fine," she whispers back, but her grip on my hand suggests otherwise.
Emma is seated on Liv's other side, and the contrast between the sisters is remarkable. Where Liv is dark-haired and composed, Emma is blonde and effervescent. Her energy draws people in with animated gestures and infectious laughter.
When guests arrived earlier, Emma threw her arms around everyone, squealing with delight and exclaiming how wonderful it was to see them. Liv, meanwhile, offered polite nods and firm handshakes to about half the guests, saving her genuine warmth for only the ones closest to her.
"Sailor," Emma says, turning her attention to me while Liv gets drawn into a conversation with Aunt Carol about wedding planning horror stories. "I'm so glad you could come. We were dying to meet you."
"Likewise," I say, and shoot Liv a wink. "Thank you for the invite."
Emma laughs. "You must be pretty special. Liv doesn't date. Like, she literally doesn't." She takes a sip of her wine—her third glass, I've noticed—and leans closer with the slightly loose confidence of someone who's been celebrating a little too enthusiastically. "It makes me so happy to see you two together." Her voice drops slightly, and she glances around to make sure no one else is listening. "Liv's not been very trusting when it comes to dating, but who can blame her, you know? After?—"
"Emma!" Liv's sharp voice cuts through the ambient noise as she turns away from her conversation with Aunt Carol. Her face has gone pale.
So Liv can hear a whispered conversation while simultaneously engaged in her own discussion. That's exceptional multitasking.
"Sorry," Emma says quickly, looking genuinely stricken. "I didn't mean to—" She catches the confusion on my face and leans toward Liv. "I assumed she knew."
Seeing Liv's discomfort, I pretend to be distracted by Uncle Pete approaching with his platter of grilled salmon. Emma clearly hit a sore spot there, but it's none of my business.
