“Cryptic.”
“Honest.”
We’re staring at each other across the table, and I’m suddenly very aware of the heat, the fan spinning uselesslyoverhead, the way her eyes look almost gold in the afternoon light.
Someone’s phone buzzes, breaking the moment.
“That’s the caterer,” Amber says, standing. “I need to take this.”
She steps out, and the room reshuffles. Michelle goes to refill her lemonade. Grayson follows her, probably to complain more about the heat. Jo is deep in her phone, texting someone.
Which leaves me and Jessica, alone on opposite sides of the table, with nothing but approximately a thousand degrees between us.
“So,” she says.
“So,” I agree.
Silence. Outside, a seagull screams. The ceiling fan creaks on its rotation.
“This heat is—” she starts.
“Unbearable,” I finish.
“I was going to say ‘character-building.’”
“That’s a generous interpretation.”
“I’m a generous person.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. It’s an actual laugh, not the polished chuckle I use in board meetings, and Jessica’s eyes widen slightly.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just—I don’t think I’ve heard you really laugh before.”
“I laugh.”
“You do that thing where you exhale slightly harder through your nose.” She demonstrates, a little huff of air. “That’s not laughing. That’s just aggressive breathing.”
“I don’t aggressively breathe.”
“You absolutely do. It’s very on-brand for you.”
“What’s my brand?”
She tilts her head, considering, the light from the window catching the gold in her hair. “Repressed. Efficient. Probably has strong opinions about thread count.”
I should be offended. Instead, I’m fighting a grin. The heat presses down on us, thick and lazy, and in the distance, kids are laughing on the beach.
“What’s your brand, then?” I ask.
“Chaotic good. Overly caffeinated. Probably talking to her cat at this exact moment via some kind of psychic connection.”
“That’s not a brand. That’s a cry for help.”
“It can be both.” She grins, and my chest flips over.
I open my mouth to respond, when Michelle returns with her lemonade.
