And they didn’t sound anything like Brighton Fairbrook. Charlotte would certainly have noticed. She and Brighton had spent years playing together, watching each other perform at concerts and recitals—Brighton’s melancholic folk style and Charlotte’s elegance and knack for arranging and interpretation. The Katies were nothing like that. They were the bright summer sun to Brighton’s cloudy autumn sky.
“So what happened?” Charlotte asked.
Sloane blew out a breath, leaned closer. “Well, apparently, according to Adele, the other two members kicked her out to make room for a new lead singer. Then, like, they went viral right after that. Totally blew up.”
“My god,” Charlotte said, her gaze instinctively going to Brighton on the back porch.
“I know, right? Worst luck in the world. Adele said she hasn’t touched her guitar since it all went down back in March. I wonder if she’s actually any good.”
“She’s good,” Charlotte said, a defensive instinct.
Sloane frowned. “How do you know?”
Charlotte swallowed, looked down at the swill in her cup. “Just a guess. She’s got…I don’t know, a vibe.”
“Avibe?” Sloane laughed. “Charlotte Donovan is talking aboutvibes. You sure you two didn’t hit it off?”
Charlotte’s mouth parted, her breath catching in her throat. She watched Brighton laugh at something, tuck her hair behind her ear. She couldn’t imagine Brighton Fairbrook without her guitar, without that notebook with the cartoon cats on the cover she used to scribble in all the time, forgoing homework and meals, showing up late to appointments or outings she and Charlotte had planned because she’d gotten lost in some song she was writing. She couldn’t imagine Brighton Fairbrook ever giving up her dream.
But she didn’t really know Brighton Fairbrook anymore, did she?
“Like I said, she’s not my type.” Charlotte cleared her throat, tipped a bit more lukewarm chocolate sugar into her mouth.
Sloane narrowed her eyes. “Whatisyour type?”
Charlotte ignored the question, forced her eyes in front of her—she definitely didnotlook at the long-haired bohemian in the red plaid coat.
“Ah,” Sloane said. “I see.”
“See what?”
Sloane lifted her cup toward someone across the fire, someone Charlotte’s eyes had apparently landed on when she was trying very pointedlynotto look at Brighton.
Wes Reynolds.
He was talking with someone Charlotte hadn’t yet met, a woman with long blond hair and heeled boots.
“Oh, no, I—” Charlotte started to say but then froze.
Wes was a nice guy. Sloane had dated him for years in high school, so he had to be. It wouldn’t hurt to spend a little time with him, would it? She had absolutely zero interest in anythingromantic or sexual happening, but conversation and some pottery-making or whatever fresh hell was in store for them at the next event—that would keep her distracted, at least.
Keep her safe from Brighton’s unwelcome and fundamentally wrong opinions about their relationship’s implosion.
“He is…cute,” Charlotte heard herself say.
Sloane laughed. “He is.”
“You’re okay if I talk to him more?” Charlotte asked.
Sloane’s smile dipped but was back in place so fast—and so genuinely—that Charlotte didn’t have time to ponder it.
“Yeah,” Sloane said, rubbing her hands on her jeans. “Absolutely. Wes!” Her abrupt call echoed across the fire, and Wes immediately turned toward her, his mouth open in midsentence. Sloane waved her hand. “Come over here.”
He said something to the blond woman, then rose, circling around the firepit until he was standing in front of Charlotte and Sloane. “What’s up?”
“Here, take my seat,” Sloane said, standing. “Charlotte wants to know more about your restaurant.”
“I do?” Charlotte said, then mentally slapped herself. “I do.”
