As always, I knew precisely which girls would show up first. My VP, Indie Layne, came into the cafe, claiming the seat next to me. Her outfit was a toned-down version of mine: a nice, frilly top, a cream blazer, and dark-wash jeans. Indie’s skin was a deep shade of dark brown. Her round cheeks were aglow with her signature purple blush. She wore black hearing aids to help with her progressive hearing loss. Indie was over six feet tall, with thick thighs and a round belly. She’d grown up as a beauty pageant queen who spent her last two years of high school being homeschooled while modeling in NewYork. We’d all been excited to find out she guest-starred in some TV shows we’d watched growing up. Hellish was the only word she used to describe her experience. She had no interest in delving into behind-the-scenes stories, so we all stopped asking for them a long time ago.
“It’s weirdly burning out,” Indie noted as she pulled her black goddess braids into a loose ponytail.
“The season flip-flops around here,” I said. “Can’t decide if it wants to be fall or not.”
She frowned in disapproval. “If that’s the case, are you sure we shouldn’t start in our shorts?”
I shook my head, only looking up from the document I was editing for a second. “Nope. I want to get the business casual out of the way. We need as much morning light as possible for the headshots. Plus, the casual photos aren’t a priority.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Indie blew out a breath and fanned herself. No matter how hot she claimed to get, she never broke a sweat. It was a trick I’m convinced she learned during her pageant days. One day, I was going to get it out of her.
Haven joined us next. She’d tucked her locs into a loose bun and wore one of my pencil skirts. The wince on her face when she tried to sit down in it made me equally sorry and amused.
“You look great,” I offered and tossed my cardigan over for her legs. She was used to showing off her toned arms but typically hid her equally toned legs under tiered skirts. The hint of calf made her self-conscious.
“How do you always walk so fast in these?” she asked.
“It’s in the hips and the stride,” I said.
“Got to take quick baby steps,” Indie suggested as she started filing her nails. “It helps you fall into a rhythm.”
“Morning, everyone.” Our last addition, Covee Bailey,greeted us as if this were our first time meeting. She was a tall girl (only an inch or so shorter than Indie) with golden brown skin, wide hips, and a soft belly. Her tight, thick coils were braided into a crown. Covee was quiet in a polite way. Gentle in everything from her sweet smile to how she handled her role as our social media manager. In our group chat, she always asked everyone involved whether they were comfortable with how they looked in the image before posting. And if not, she found another shot. When that didn’t work, she brought her editing skills to the table. I wanted the chance to get to know her better, but she had an invisible force field up. A strict line she wouldn’t let anyone cross over. Covee was happy doing most of this college thing on her own. I admired that.
“How was your study date last night?” Indie asked.
I looked up to see who the question was for. There was no way in hell Haven had a date without telling me.
Covee’s brow twitched, but she managed to regain a neutral expression in the blink of an eye. “Study date?”
“With that tall blond guy I told to fuck off before you gave me the green light,” Indie prompted, holding her hand above her head to indicate height. “From our design class.”
Covee remained silent, looking slightly confused.
“I saw you two in the library.” Indie shrugged and smiled. “Looked pretty cozy and cute together.”
“Are you talking about Weston Briggs? The guy on all those posters in the student center?” Haven chimed in with a furrowed brow. “I tutored him last year in Spanish.”
Indie snapped her fingers and nodded. “That’s him! The quarterback with that tattoo sleeve that matches those other players… Do you think they’re in a cult?”
“Who?” Haven asked.
“Weston and the others with the sleeve.”
Haven laughed. “Of course they are. They’re on the football team.”
I itched to shut my laptop and join in the conversation. But I’d made a rule for myself as soon as I became the president of BWD: I wouldn’t get buddy-buddy with the girls while we were in org mode.
I needed to be someone they looked up to and trusted to lead. You don’t trust a sitting president if they spent all night partying next to you. You don’t trust the boss who spent their morning gossiping with the rest of the co-workers around the water cooler.
“I didn’t go on a date with Weston Briggs,” Covee promised quietly and then gracefully changed the subject. “Were you guys able to see my scheduled post? Any objections to the caption?”
Indie sighed, disappointed she hadn’t gotten any morning drama. But she should know better than to source her entertainment from our most private member.
“The caption is brilliant,” Haven assured. “As always.”
“No notes,” Indie agreed and then glanced at her phone. “Who are we waiting for again? I thought Emmy and the others had headed out?”
Emmy Jackson was our secretary and our photographer (for the day). She’d picked up the board members who lived on her side of campus and had already started toward the beach a half hour ago.
