I nod. “Understood.”
Lots of people consider Oliver Kensington intimidating. But I rarely see it. Around Mom and Rory and me, Dad is attentive and loving. Butthat doesn’t mean he’s not capable of switching to his important CEO persona in some situations.
“Good.” He kisses Mom—I make a face and grab another croissant—then heads upstairs to shower.
“Is Rory sleeping in?” I ask.
Mom shakes her head, picking up her phone and typing. “She’s out by the pool. Carson called.”
I make a face again. I am not a fan of my sister’s boyfriend. But Rory and I have never had similar tastes in guys. One of our many differences.
“Wren,” Mom warns, noticing my expression.
I know she’s not a huge fan of Carson’s either, but my mom has mastered the art of keeping certain opinions to herself. One I have yet to attempt.
“I said nothing,” I remind her, then stuff my mouth with more croissant.
6
Ishove my hands deeper in my pockets, ignoring my buzzing phone as I walk toward the illuminated tent ahead. Themassivetent. For shade earlier, I guess? Not a single drop of rain fell today.
Everyone knows where the annual Red, White, and Blue party takes place.
Few people know about the cove around the corner from the Ellsworth compound. If more did, I’m guessing they’d have a security guard stationed there.
I trample through the last of the undergrowth and finally reach sand. The first guy I see is wearing a suit. Full suit, tie and everything.
I swapped my marina polo for a plain T-shirt before driving here, thinking the khaki shorts would pass for a beach party.
I was wrong. The next group of guys I see have tuxedos on. I might as well be wearing a neon sign advertisingdoes not belong.
My jaw clenches as I continue trekking through the sand. A few people glance my way, trading whispers behind glasses of champagne.
Showing up here was stupid. My buzzing phone is likely evidence Gus or some of my other friends are questioning the vagueI’ve got something to take care oftext I sent to the group in response to their shared plans to watch the fireworks down by the pier. Depending how long this takes, I might miss it entirely.
But this is the only place I could think of to track her down. And possibly my last chance to, if she’s leaving right after the holiday.
So, here I am.
The closer I get to the tent, the more I comprehend the scale of this party. Up closer to the house is the main event. The crowd down on the private beach is undoubtedly younger. Most are luxuriously dressed, but a few closer to the shoreline have stripped down to swimwear.
I recognize no one. I’m sure some have been to the Atlantic Yacht Club to go out on parents’ or grandparents’ boats, but they all tend to blend together in my mind. Except for one, of course, who’s nowhere to be seen.
Shouts draw my attention to the far side of the private beach, opposite from the end I trespassed from.
She changed her hair. It’s shorter, the pink gone, the new length falling just past her shoulders. But I’m certain it’s her, even before she turns and volleys an inflated, striped ball at a giggling brunette.
I head that way, tucking my hands into my pockets and hovering at the edge of the tent as I watch the chaotic game that appears to be a mix of volleyball and soccer.
Wren is wearing a strapless red dress and no shoes. She’s also the most dedicated player on the makeshift court, tackling the role of referee and player. She declares out of bounds, even though there are no obviouslines on the ground, and no one argues with the assessment.
Watching her, I’m tempted to turn and leave before she spots me. She’s laughing and vibrant, unbothered. I’m not even sure what I came here to say. I was annoyed she had shown up last night, and she had technically been invited. I’m undeniably crashing.
But I linger too long, watching her compete. The teams drift apart, like time expired, even though there’s no visible clock. Most players head for the open bar under the tent.
Except for one.
Wren walks straight to me, pausing a few feet away with an expectant expression and windblown hair.
