“Same thing.”
The lobby opens into a courtyard that didn’t exist the last time I was here. It’s all restored brick and Edison bulbs strung between posts, ivy crawling up trellises that frame a view of the harbor. The sun is starting its descent, painting everything in shades of amber and rose, and the air tastes like salt and champagne and something I can’t name.
Groups of people cluster around high-top tables, voices rising and falling in that particular rhythm of pre-wedding gatherings—excited, slightly nervous, trying too hard. I spot my parents immediately.
Mom, Evelyn Carter, stands near the bar, elegant in a navy wrap dress that shows off the toned arms she maintains with religious dedication to yoga and Pilates. Her hair is honey-blonde, swept into a soft twist that gleams in the fading light. Her eyes—those same sea-glass green eyes I see in the mirror every morning—track the room with the precision of someone used to being admired.
Dad, the infamous and imposing Dominic Carter, stands on the opposite side of the courtyard with his hand on the small of Aria’s back.
Aria, who is twenty-three. Who has beachy blonde waves and a romper that shows off legs that go on forever. Who is closer to my age than my father’s.
My stomach clenches. Not with anger—I’ve processed that, mostly—but with the exhausting knowledge that I’m going to spend this entire week running interference so this wedding doesn’t turn into a family therapy session.
“Parker!” Mom spots me first. Her face lights up in that way that makes her beautiful, that reminds me she was a model before she married Dad, before she had us. She cuts through the crowd with the grace of someone who’s always been watched, and then her arms are around me, her perfume—something expensive and floral—filling my nose.
“You’re so thin. Are you eating?” She pulls back, her hands framing my face, her dark eyes scanning like she can diagnose all my problems in one look.
“I’m eating, Mom. Promise.” I kiss her cheek. “You look beautiful.”
“And you look exhausted.” She brushes a curl away from my face, tucking it behind my ear. “This job is working you too hard.”
That’s just a mother’s love telling her daughter she looks less than appealing.
You have to love that backhanded concern, right?
Before I can respond, Dad appears at my elbow. He’s aged well—gray at his temples, lines around his eyes that make him look distinguished instead of old. He pulls me into a hug that smells like his cologne and the mint gum he’s always chewing.
“There’s my girl. How was the flight?”
“Long. Lost my luggage.” I don’t look at Aria, who’s hovering just behind him, her smile uncertain. I should acknowledge her. I know I should. But I can feel Mom’s tension radiating like heat, and I’m too tired to navigate this minefield right now.
Aria clears her throat softly. “Hi, Parker. It’s so nice to finally meet you in person.”
She’s sweet. I can hear it in her voice, see it in the way she’s trying so hard to make this less awkward. It’s not her fault my father went through a midlife crisis and traded in his marriage for someone who wasn’t even born when he graduated from college.
“Nice to meet you, too.” I manage a smile. It probably doesn’t reach my eyes.
Charlie, bless him, swoops in with Sienna at his side. “So, Em.” He’s grinning now, that particular smile that says he’s proud of something. “What do you think of the place? It’s different from what you remember, right?”
I glance around the courtyard, at the carefully restored brick and the elegant lighting, the way everything feels both historic and brand new. “It’s gorgeous. When did they renovate?”
“Recently. The new owners have been pouring money into it.” Sienna practically vibrates with excitement. “And you’ll never guess who bought it.”
Something in her tone makes my stomach flip. That particular combination of glee and mischief that usually means trouble.
“Who?”
“Jace, Cal, and Silas,” Charlie says, and the names land like stones in water, ripples spreading outward. “They bought it last year.”
The champagne in my hand suddenly feels too cold. My fingers tighten around the stem.
Jace Moreau. Callum Voss. Silas Vale.
Ugh.
“What? Why?” My voice sounds flat. Distant.
My brother doesn’t provide more of an answer than a simple shrug. That’s how it’s been since Dad bestowed the inheritance of the Carter family name on him. Ladies aren’t exactly invited to sit in the meeting room.
