Splashing and laughter float from the pool behind us during a break in the dance music. No way am I brave enough to ask Lucky to confirm or deny the nasty rumors about him. I try for a safer subject and ask, “What are you doing out here alone in the bushes, anyway?”
“Meditating on the meaning of life and how to live it.”
“What is that? Some kind of code for smoking up?”
“You offering?”
“I have a peppermint candy in my pocket.”
He whistles softly. “Nowit’s a party.”
I smile. Just a little.
He smiles. Just a little …
“Seriously,” I say. “What are you doing back here?”
“Antony invited me.” When I make a face he elaborates, “Adrian’s cousin.”
Huh. Hopefully that’s not the same guy Evie is trying to avoid. “Which Adrian?”
He looks at me as if I’m a big-eyed space alien who just walked out of a flying saucer. “Adrian Summers? As in descended from the founder of Beauty? Father is Levi Summers? This is his cousin’s house.”
I stare at Lucky, blinking.
“You know Evie just broke up with Adrian Summers, right?”Lucky says. “I thought you and Evie were close, or whatever. You live in the same house and work together.”
Oh.
Now I feel completely blindsided. Why didn’t Evie tell me this? I pretend like my cheeks aren’t suddenly ten degrees warmer and try to cover it up with more sarcasm—a tried-and-true Saint-Martin technique for avoiding humiliation. “And you got a personal invite to a Golden party, huh? Didn’t realize you were part of the crème de la crème of Beauty.”
“Yeah, no. My pops made me come,” Lucky admits. “We take care of all the Summers family’s boats. Gotta flaunt my handsome mug around all these future yacht owners, so one day, when hethinksI’m taking over the family business, which I’m not”—he holds up a finger to his lips—“I can charge them ridiculous prices for oil changes and repairs.” He shrugs.
“Circle of life, and all that?”
“All that,” he agrees. “And what about you, shutterbug?”
I frown at him. “Don’t call me that.”
“Your mom still does.”
Sure. It’s been my nickname since I was old enough to steal her phone and take pictures of my own feet. He knows that. What surprises me is thathe’s heard my mom calling me this recently.
“Just how much do you hear, brooding in the back of our shop?”
He threads his fingers together. “I hear some things, figure others out. I have some theories about you.”
“Is that so?” I say. “Enlighten me, then. What are your theories?”
“I think you know that Beauty isn’t your mom’s forever home. So when your grandmother comes back and your mom inevitably hits the road, I think you plan on going out West to crash with your father.”
Every muscle in my body tenses.
His smile is slow and smug. “Knew it.”
“What the hell?” Has he learned some new hacking skills over the past few years? Paranoia skitters down my spine.
“Travel books about Los Angeles,” he explains. “Seen you flipping through them at the Nook when you think no one’s watching and hiding the notes you make from your mom. Your dad’s an LA fashion photographer who has a multimillion-dollar beachfront mansion in Malibu, and you always wanted to go out there. One plus one plus one equals you’re planning a secret trip to California.…”
