Her hair was lighter than before, blown out in soft waves that probably cost more than a week of groceries. Her dress was cream, sleeveless, expensive in that quiet way rich people liked because logos were for the almost-rich. One hand wrapped around a champagne flute. The six-carat solitaire sat on her finger like a small planet.
Behind her, green grass rolled away in perfect lines, and there were women in tennis whites laughing at the next table.
Rylee belonged there now.
Or she wanted people to think she did, which might’ve been the same thing.
For a split second, memory opened sharp and mean. Rylee barefoot in my old kitchen, wearing one of my black shirts, hair messy, stealing bacon from a pan while telling me yellow curtains would make the place warmer. Rylee on the back of my bike, arms locked around me, laughing into the wind. Rylee lying under me in a room with no curtains at all, her skin flushed and real, no diamond armor, no country club smile, just my girl looking at me like I’d hung the moon with grease under my nails.
My gaze caught on the photograph again.
There.
The freckle on her collarbone.
Tiny. Dark. Just left of center.
I swallowed hard before I could stop myself.
I remembered that freckle. Remembered finding it with my mouth, tracing the spot with my tongue because she used to shiver when I took my time there. Remembered the path lower. The sound she made when she forgot to be difficult. The way she’d say Mason like it was both a warning and a prayer.
Those days were gone.
So was that girl.
Nothing in the photograph belonged to the woman I had loved except that freckle. Everything else had been sanded, whitened, polished, upgraded, and posed for approval from people who probably called motorcycles “dangerous” and thought leather meant a designer handbag.
River sent another text.
Sorry, brother. Saw it and figured better me than somebody else.
I stared at the screen until the photo started making me feel stupid.
Then I locked the phone.
Regan was still watching me.
“What?” I asked.
Her voice went careful. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You looked like someone hit you.”
“Would’ve preferred that.”
She knew better than to push. Or maybe she was learning. Either way, she let it sit there between us while the fire popped and Sienna laughed at something Amber said.
That laugh pulled my attention before I gave it permission.
Low. Real. Not some bar-girl performance, not the breathy little sound women used when they wanted a man to feel clever. Sienna laughed like it surprised her. Like she didn’t get muchpractice. Like her body remembered the motion before the rest of her had decided whether joy was safe.
That annoyed me most.
Because for one stupid second, I wanted to go closer.
Gunner chuckled behind us.
