He sips at his icy cold beer, mops his hairline with the back of his hand.
They aren’t putting on a fireworks show, per se, but as soon as it’s pitch-black out, they’ll pass around the Black Cats to the kids, and the caterers will shoot off the Roman candles, etc.
The party’s been in full swing for an hour now, the band playing, the guests feasting—mainly drinking—and Charleigh seems pleased.
Jackson would call this a success but for the fact that he can’t seem to get a second alone with Ethan. The man has not stopped working the crowd, roaming from couple to couple, shaking hands, cracking jokes.
Jackson knows he’s desperate for the business, and obviously he wasn’t expecting to make out or anything, but damn, a littleEthan attention would help ease the roiling in his jittery stomach.
Instead, he drinks. This is his third beer, on top of that first glass of champagne. His peripheral vision is cloudy, and he can feel his inhibitions loosening, so he knows he needs to slow down, ease off the sauce. He just can’t seem to stop himself.
When the Swifts first arrived, he made it a point to greet them. After all, he is the one who invited them here.
Abigail sprung herself on Jackson, surprising him by folding his body into a tight hug. “Thank you for inviting us!”
His face flushed; he awkwardly patted her back, then looked over her shoulder at Ethan, who shot him a smirk.
“Yes, thank you, Jackson,” Ethan said, offering his hand to shake.
Jackson never wanted to let go, longed to pull Ethan behind the nearest tree, tug him into a lingering kiss. Instead, they made small talk in front of the rest of the guests, Jackson inhaling Ethan’s godlike scent: wood, fir, sex.
Then Ethan was pulled away, almost by an unseen force, to the party.
Jackson now sinks to sit on a brick step, halfway up the rambling lawn, alone. Watches the partygoers below, a tangle of sweaty, intoxicated bodies boiling around the perimeter of the pool, the various stone patios, the gazebo.
Monica—hair starched to the heavens, silk blouse draped off a shoulder, tight shorts squeezing her buns—slinks an arm around Ethan’s neck like she owns him. And just like the night at the Boat House, her husband, Chip, doesn’t seem to notice, busyas he is flirting with the rest of the women at the party.
Monica’s been trailing Ethan all night, Jackson’s noticed, but now anger flares within him at this brazen display of affection.
Who the fuck does she think she is?
Because Ethan’s making her husband a five-thousand-dollar desk, she thinks he’s her property?
But Jackson knows what’s really upsetting him is the fact that Ethan seems to be enjoying the attention, snaking his own arm around Monica’s thin waist, grinning that roguish grin of his.
Jackson chugs the rest of his beer, sighs. Surely Ethan’s just playing the game, he tells himself. He literally just told Jackson the other day that he needed to see him again, as soon as possible.
Jackson’s gaze then alights on Abigail, whose head is tossed back in a full-throated laugh at something Alexander is saying to her. They’re standing off to the side of the crowd, brazenly flirting.
Charleigh’s too soused to notice; she’s sitting at the lip of the pool, her toned calves submerged, margarita in one hand while she gestures with her other. She’s holding court with Kathleen and Kyle, eyes animated, her throaty voice carrying over the din of drunks.
As soon as Ethan unlatches himself from Monica, Jackson will make his move, tell Ethan that he needs to have a word. Suggest to him that they go up to the house together under the guise of something. No one will care, and no one will notice, especially that hussy Abigail, who’s still moon-eyed and preeningin front of Charleigh’s husband.
Charleigh, meanwhile, must be so satisfied with how the night is going—Jackson has noticed Luke circulating through the crowd like Ethan, charming, happy—that she’s failed to notice her man all but drinking Abigail in with his eyes.
Fuck.
He’s gonna have to tell her soon. Real soon. But first, he’sgotto tell Ethan.
50
Nellie
I stagger over to a lantern, study my Swatch in the light. Exactly fifty-five minutes have passed since I stood in the bright den with Luke. Time to go meet him in the woods.
I’ve watched him, from a distance, for the past hour. How he smoothly makes his way through the crowd, cheeks dimpled as he smiles.
I wonder, though, what the guestsreallythink of him, with his chain wallet, tattoos.
