“You should see her house,” Annaliese says to the guys. “It’s sick. Remember that huge boathouse we saw when we were cruising yesterday? With the blue doors and the rooftop deck?”
“Holy shit, that’s your property?” Preston exclaims. “The hockey house?”
“Wait, your dad’s Garrett Graham?” Kuri blurts out.
“John Logan,” I correct. “But we co-own the house with the Grahams.”
Preston shivers. “Oh my God. That is incredible.”
“You guys are welcome to come by,” I tell them. “I mean, I’ll have to check with my handler first, but I’m sure it’s fine.”
“You mean your boyfriend?” Annaliese says in amusement.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“She’s single,” Kuri says happily, and I can’t stop a chuckle. He seems like the goofball of the group.
“What’s your number?” Annaliese slides her phone out of the pocket of her cutoffs. She keys in the digits I recite. “Perfect. I’ll text you later. We can figure something out.”
“Sounds good,” I say. She seems cool, and her friends are entertaining.
As the group wanders off, I track Wyatt down to the dairy aisle.
“Where have you been?” he says absently. “Crying in the cereal aisle?”
“No, just ran into some locals. I invited them over.”
His gaze sharpens. “What locals?”
“Don’t you dare snap into babysitter mode,” I scold. “I’m an adult and I can invite friends over if I want. Anyway, it’s Annaliese. The Golden Boys can vouch for her.”
“Oh, I remember her. Yeah, she’s cool. What kind of ice cream should we get?” He’s holding up two different containers. “Choc-shock cherry explosion or praline fudge-mallow?”
I gawk at him. “Do you realize how much sugar is in those?”
He ponders that, then says, “You’re right. We should get both.” He deposits both tubs in the cart and pushes it forward.
As we get into the checkout line, I spot Annaliese and her friends loading items onto the neighboring conveyor belt. She grins when she notices me and Wyatt, and a minute later, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
ANNALIESE
You should hit that. He’s so hot.
He refers to me as “kid.”
ANNALIESE
Ouch.
Yeah.
In the parking lot, I admire Wyatt’s arms again as he bends into the trunk, stacking paper bags inside it. Why do his muscles flex so much?
“Wyatt?” a female voice says. Bright and overly eager.
I glance over to see a woman in the next row of cars. She’s in her early twenties, with long brown hair, a tiny sundress, and oversize sunglasses.
Wyatt straightens only to offer a polite nod. “Hey, Rosie. How’s it going?”
