“Are we really doing this?” Brighton asked. “We’re really just going to—”
“As opposed to relying on passive-aggressive questions about each other’s spice preferences?” Lola said. “Yes, I think we’re doing this.” She finally met Brighton’s eyes, and they stayed like that for a second, just staring. Looking. Lola’s gaze didn’t budge, but Brighton felt exposed anyway.
Seen.
“Lola. Please. Just—”
Lola turned away then, her heeled black boots clicking against the hardwood as she went back to the table, topped off her own glass, and knocked back the contents.
Brighton just watched, her heart aching against her ribs, and hoped like hell Nina had some strong coffee and a lot of ibuprofen on hand in the morning.
Chapter 7
“Good morning!”
Light splintered through Charlotte’s eyelids as someone—a horrible person, surely—threw the curtains open.
“Mom, Jesus Christ!” Sloane said, her voice raspy with sleep.
Charlotte threw a hand over her eyes to block out the light, which literally felt like a thousand knives prying under her lashes.
Her head ached.
No, not ached—pulsed like a bomb about to explode, counting down to some catastrophic event. She wasn’t hungover, exactly—she never got drunk enough for that diagnosis—but her skull despised red wine, despite her taste for it. She hated that Brighton was right, but syrah was all Nina had been serving last night, and Charlotte hadn’t felt like she could swan into dinner demanding a Manhattan.
And abstaining, sipping calmly on water, wouldn’t have cut it.
Not with Brighton and beach glass andLolawhispered like a plea in the kitchen.
So red wine it had been, and lots of it throughout the evening, which also included the cacophony of dice clattering in the cup, then hitting the wooden table, yells, and laughter. Charlotte had even rolled a Yahtzee and managed not to lose horribly. Manish, however, hadn’t been so lucky.
The thought made her nearly laugh, which was a mistake, because any motion in her face hurt, everything aching right down to her teeth.
“Oh my god,” she mumbled as Nina not only opened the curtains but twisted the blinds wide too, letting in every bit of the winter Colorado sun. She pressed her face into her pillow. Sloane’s sheets smelled like clean linen, though her mouth tasted like the streets of New York on a ninety-degree day.
“Mother,” Sloane said, her eyes still closed. “I love you, but please get out.”
“I’m sorry, I’m going,” Nina said, turning away and heading toward the door. “But neither of you heard me knocking.”
“Because we’re sleeping!” Sloane said.
Charlotte heard a jingling sound, then felt something wet on her face. She cracked an eye open to see Snickerdoodle panting next to her side of the bed, his face eager and sweet. She would laugh but knew the motion would make her want to die, so she settled for tangling her fingers into his soft fur.
“Well, I had to get you up,” Nina said, halfway out the door now. “It’s almost nine, and you need to be at Hazelthorne Farms at ten.”
“What?” Sloane said, sitting up. Her curls were wrapped in a silk scarf, her eyes still a bit bleary. “Why the hell do we need to be there?”
Nina waved a hand as she walked out the door. “Horseback riding. Wear something warm!”
And with that proclamation, she disappeared down the hall. Snickerdoodle remained, sitting down now and submitting himself obediently to Charlotte’s pets, which were actually helping to soothe her pounding head.
“Mom, what are you talk—” Sloane started but cut herself off, though her mouth remained hanging wide open. “No,” she said quietly. “Oh my god, please tell me she did not.”
“What is happening?” Charlotte asked. She hadn’t even tried to sit up yet, terrified if she moved, her skull would shatter. “Did she say horseback riding?”
Sloane dropped her face into her hands and groaned. “Two Turtledoves.”
“I’m sorry?”
