“It’s okaaay,” Margot drawls, “but it’s no Chicago.”
Callie strokes the pearls on her necklace, her eyes steady on me, her other hand parked on her hip.
“I wanted to slow down, get away from it all. I’ve got a kiddo now, and my husband’s an architect, found good work here. We’ve been in Mapleton about seven months now.”
I swivel around and look for Graham. He’s leaning against the open bar, pinned in by Erin, who’s no doubt telling him one of her endless stories. But his eyes are intent and warm, his head tilted to one side, listening. His hair is still pomade-perfect, and his smile is a shock of white, even from here.
“Is thathim?” Margot asks, motioning toward Graham.
I nod.
“He’ssogood-lookin’,” she says, hip cocked, still staring at him.
My stomach drops. The thought that she thinks Graham is hot thrills me for some reason.
My eyes graze along the hem of her dress. Her thighs are flawless; I imagine the hours she must spend each day doing lunges.
From inside her purse, Jill’s phone chimes loudly. She unzips it, spilling the contents on the grass.
“God, you’re already drunk!” Margot howls.
“S’okay,” Jill says, bent over and scrambling on the lawn. “I can stagger home from here.”
She rises with her phone in hand. Turns to me. “I live two blocks that way.” She waves her phone in the direction of the dark woods behind us. She swipes the screen of her phone.
“Well, who wants you now?” Margot teases.
Jill studies the screen, brows furrowed. “It’s Alex. He wants to know if we can have a dinner date Friday night. Ugh! He knows Fridays are for you guys.” Her shoulders slump as she types into her phone.
“I want to do something different this week,” Margot says.
“I’m game,” Tina says, her heart-shaped mouth curling into a devilish grin.
Callie shifts toward Margot, yanks on her shoulder, mouths something in her ear.
“It’s fine,” Margot hisses to Callie, shrugging her off. She turns toward the group. “I actually think we should invite her.”
Jill looks up from her phone, exhales, blowing her bangs skyward. I have no idea what they’re talking about, but they’re all studying my face.
“Don’t you think we can tell her?” Margot asks Tina.
Tina shrugs, her radiant smile dancing all the way to her eyes. “I don’t see why not. It’s not like she knows anyone in town.”
Callie narrows her eyes at me but Margot slides in between us. She leans in and lowers her voice. “We’re in a secret club. A shooting club.” Her breath feels electric against my neck.
“Every Friday night, without fail, we go out to my lake house and shoot skeet, sometimes target practice. Blow off some steam.”
My neck smolders; my mouth goes dry.
“Care to join us?”
I nod robotically, willing to do anything she asks.
“See ya Friday, then,” she says and pivots away from me. “Gotta go make an appearance,” she says over her shoulder, and heads for the crowd, the other three trailing her.
AS WE WAITfor the valet under a twinkling oak tree, its branches as chubby as a newborn’s legs, Graham fishes out his wallet and fumbles with bills for a tip. Erin breaks away from Ryan and walks over to us, pulls me to the side.
“I noticed you were talking to Margot and her friends for a while tonight,” she says, without a trace of jealousy in her voice. The silhouette of the oak tree is black against the bruised-purple night sky. “I was surprised,” she says. Her buzz from earlier seems to have lifted, and her face is now edged with concern. “And I just need to tell you”—she leans in closer as if she doesn’t want anyone to overhear—“be careful. Margot Banks is not a niceperson.”
