I glance down at my khaki slacks and black short-sleeved button-up shirt with all the buttons done—not my usual style. Spencer laughed me out of the house earlier. But I don’t want to let Isla down.
“I hate old money people with all their rituals, and excess, and judgment,” she continues. “But Brooks isn’t like that at all. I haven’t met his sister yet. What’s she like?”
“Isla is…” My mind drifts to all the adjectives that describe her—sarcastic, assertive, beautiful, absurdly talented—before landing on the one that feels safest to admit out loud. “…no bullshit.”
“Sounds like my kind of girl.”
Mine too.
She holds out her hand as the elevator reaches the sixth floor. “I’m Deandra Collins.”
“Wes Davidson.” I shake her hand briefly.
The doors open, and we step out of the elevator onto her floor.
“You’ll want to go that way,” she says, pointing toward the right. “Good luck tonight.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it.”
I fiddle with my car keys in my pocket as I walk down the hall, watching the numbers climb until I reach 604. A floor mat, with the words “Well, don’t just stand there” beside a cartoon of an agitated gray and white tabby cat, greets me. I press the doorbell and suck in a deep breath as I wait for it to swing open.
Brooks Covington opens the door. I recognize him from a billboard I passed on my way to hockey practice in high school. He sported a wide grin, spinning a basketball on the tip of his finger. He doesn’t look that different now.
“You must be Wes,” he says.
“Yeah, hey.”
“I’m Brooks.” He steps backward, holding an arm out to usher me inside the condo. “You’re not what I expected.”
“In what—”
Brooks cuts off my question. “But I guess my sample size is small. Her asshole ex-husband and some preppy guys in high school.”
I pull on the collar of my shirt. “This isn’t preppy enough for a Covington dinner?”
Brooks laughs. “Touché. It’s a nice thing you’re doing for her. I’m going to take a wild guess that it isn’t only out of your deep sense of compassion. So you better be good to her, or you’ll answer to me.” He raises his eyebrows, then shouts, “Isla, yourboyfriend’shere!”
“That’s not—” But I lose my words when Islacomes into view.
The reason I said yes to this dinner at her family’s house hits me square in the chest. My breath catches, watching her strawberry-blond hair sway as she rushes toward the door. Her loose green short-sleeve dress dips at her chest, revealing a hint of cleavage, and cinches at her trim waist before billowing out and fluttering as she moves. It takes every bit of discipline I can muster to force myself to look away from her.
Isla shoves Brooks out of the way, which takes a few tries before he finally retreats. “Don’t worry, he knows this is all fake.”
Was it fake at the bar? I want to demand. Instead, I ask, “Not going to invite me in?”
“Not tonight,” she sings, the words carrying a promise I hope she keeps. She slides into a pair of white sneakers, placing her hand against the wall for balance.
“We’re leaving,” she shouts to her brother, who stands in the kitchen, pretending not to watch us while refilling his water purifier.
“Isn’t he coming with us?” I ask.
“He’s taking his car.” She grabs a small purse from a hanging hook, leans in close, and pitches her voice lower. “In case we need to escape.”
I follow Isla as she leaves the condo and starts walking down a set of stairs. She swings her purse, her opposite hand drumming against her hip, as she descends at a brisk pace. The slap of our shoes fills the stairwell.
It’s unsettling seeing her disheveled and nervous when she’s heading to her home. It tells me everything I need to know about herfamily. I have no idea how I’m supposed to pretend I don’t think these people are trash for the next two hours.
As we pass the front desk, Bertram points two fingers at his eyes, then turns them around to point at me.
