“Shhh…keep your voice down,” Alexander admonishes her.
Jackson has never liked Monica. Doesn’t really see why Charleigh constantly twists herself into knots to keep up with her. I mean, hegetsit—she is the queen bee—but he can’t stand her. She always makes him feel like a caricature,the gay man in town. Her voice gets higher, brighter, more over the top when she addresses him, like when someone screams at a deaf or foreign-born person.
She’s a dead ringer for Morgan Fairchild, and her daughter is her carbon copy. Rich bitches personified.
But his attention is trained on Ethan, who’s dressed much like he was the other night, in a simple button-down Henley. This one is white, dressier, though, and his hair looks freshly shampooed, his honey-colored locks glistening in the dying sunlight.
Jackson’s stomach twirls.
Like Charleigh did, he lifts his cocktail to his lips, slams half of it.
Both families are heading over, Blair’s eyes lasering them, a wicked red-lipped grin slashing her angular face.
Fuck me, Jackson thinks.
“Heeeeey!” Monica trills as they approach the table, looping Ethan’s wife’s arm through her own.
Jackson sizes her up. Humph. She’sokay, but rather plain, if you ask him. Dressed in a floral-patterned dress—homemade, by the looks of it—as Charleigh warned him about. Unlike the other ladies at the Boat House, her hair is devoid of any product, but rather than looking natural, it just looks sad and lifeless. She has a nice rack, though, he’ll give her that, but otherwise, she’s very ordinary, the kind of blank-canvas beauty that certain men are attracted to, the kind that can be molded into anything they want.
“Well, hey, Andersens!” Monica is clearly already soused, her sky-blue eyes bloodshot and swimming. “I wanted to introduce you to the Swifts! Though Abigail here has told me y’all’ve already met.” She all but sneers at Charleigh.
Ever the gentleman, Alexander rises, pumps Ethan’s hand. “Alexander Andersen, pleasure to meet you.”
“And you as well. Ethan Swift.”
Jackson can’t pry his eyes off Ethan, but so far, Ethan hasn’t even glanced his way.
Monica plants a claw on Ethan’s shoulder, a possessive gesture. “Ethan here is amastercarpenter. He’s building Chip a custom desk for the home office!” She lowers her voice to a whisper, cups a flat palm against her lips, like she’s telling us a secret. “Costs five grand!”
Chip, who has his back turned to us, is busy checking out all the ladies on the deck, seemingly oblivious to Monica’s chatter.
Charleigh’s face has turned scarlet; she looks as though her skin is on fire.
“Amazing!” Alexander offers.
“And this is Abigail, his wife!” Monica gives her a nudge, as if she’s presenting a show pony.
“I’ve already had the pleasure. Good to see you again, though,” Charleigh manages to say through clenched teeth.
It just lasts a second—and Jackson’s pretty sure he’s the only one who clocks this—but he catches Alexander’s eyes flick over Abigail’s chest, sees them crimp into a smile.
“Charleigh here tells me that y’all live out on some land?” Alexander asks.
Abigail giggles nervously, schoolgirlish. “Yeah, over off Seven Pines Road. We like it out there. Like to live off the land, grow our own food—”
Charleigh snorts into her glass.
If Abigail notices, she doesn’t show it, her dewy face still brimming with that schoolgirl smile.
“I myself like the land, too. My family, my ancestors, have a real nice piece out in Kilgore. Lots of woods. But we don’t get out there all that much anymore, do we, babe?”
Charleigh places her drink down, skewers Alexander with her cold glance, obviously for being cordial to the enemy. “Nope. This is about as outdoorsy as I like to get.” A dark laugh slithers out of her.
“And this is?” Alexander asks, motioning to the girl. No doubt trying to steer the conversation back to calmer waters.
“I’m Jane. Jane Swift.” She beams at each of them. Now it’s Blair’s turn to sneer at Nellie, flaunting Jane in front of her.
A flash of anger zings through Jackson; he feels oddly protective over Nellie.
