I look away, focusing intently on the sesame seeds on my bun.
"So," I say, desperate to change the subject before I say something else humiliating. "We survived. Betty seems to approve of me. The raw bar didn't kill a senator. What's next?"
Brooks leans back on his elbows, looking up at the stars. The tension eases slightly, but the awareness remains, a hum of static electricity connecting my bare arm to his rolled-up sleeve.
"Tomorrow is Sunday," he says. "Which means brunch."
"I can do brunch," I say, taking another bite. "I invented brunch. Mimosas are just fruit salad with ambition."
"This isn't a normal brunch," Brooks warns. "It's the Vanderbilts' annual mid-summer brunch. Whatever you do, don't eat the quiche. It's dry, and if you leave crumbs, they judge your lineage."
"Noted. Dry quiche. Who are the Vanderbilts? Are they actual Vanderbilts, or just people who bought the name on eBay?"
"Distant relations. But they act like they built the railroads themselves. They're the unofficial judges of the summer season. If you pass muster with Betty, that's step one. If you survive Penelope Vanderbilt, you're golden."
"Penelope," I repeat. The name sounds familiar, scratching at the back of my brain. "Wait. Penelope Vanderbilt? The heiress who runs that 'lifestyle brand'? The one that sells eighty-dollar candles that smell like Old Money and Passive Aggression?"
"That's the one."
"And why do I need to survive her? Is she the final boss in this video game?"
Brooks hesitates. He swirls his milkshake, the straw making a scratching sound against the plastic lid. He looks at the neon sign buzzing overhead, his expression tightening.
"Because," he says carefully, "before I met you, before the 'whirlwind romance' and the concussion, my mother and her mother were... aggressively suggesting that Penelope and I merge assets."
I stop eating. I slowly lower my burger to the wrapper.
"She's the ex?"
"She's the candidate," Brooks corrects, turning to look at me. "There was never a relationship. Just a spreadsheet. On paper, we make sense. Same background, same tax bracket, our families have summered together since the twenties. It would have been convenient. Two dynasties uniting to create a super-dynasty of boredom."
"And?"
"And I'd rather drink battery acid," Brooks says flatly. "Penelope is... she's perfect. Perfectly groomed, perfectly educated, perfectly boring. A conversation with her is like reading a press release. She has never had a hair out of place. She has never raised her voice. I don't think she sweats."
I laugh, a short bark of sound. "And I'm not perfect?"
He turns his head fully to look at me. His gaze travels over my hair, no longer smooth or intentional, strands loose down my back. He glances at my mouth, like he's checking for evidence of our burger run. My bare feet dangle off the bumper, my heels abandoned on the asphalt.
"No," he says softly. "You're definitely not perfect."
I bristle slightly, defensiveness flaring up. "Hey. I just saved your mother's party."
"You're real," he finishes, ignoring my protest. "You're messy. You have opinions on HVAC systems. You eat burgers like you're starving. You tackle people when they threaten your friends."
He shifts, leaning closer. The smell of his cologne, sandalwood and night air, mixes with the grease of the fries, and somehow, it's the best thing I've ever smelled.
"You're vibrant, Ivy."
My heart does a stutter-step in my chest.
"Vibrant is polite code for 'loud,'" I say quietly.
"Maybe," he admits. "But I like loud. I'm starting to realize I've spent a lot of time in quiet rooms."
He reaches out. For a second, I think he's going to cup my cheek. Instead, he brushes a crumb off my shoulder. His fingers linger on the silk of my dress, warm and rough against my skin. The touch lands deeper than it should.
"Clause 4," I whisper, my voice shaky. "No touching without an audience."
