I flip it. It’s fine. Mostly.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Nothing to talk about.” I arrange the cooked steaks on a plate. “Just making sure your party’s going well.”
“Uh-huh.” Leo doesn’t sound convinced. “And the death glare you're directing at Kennedy’s back?”
“I’m not—” I stop, because yeah, I definitely am. “Neve set them up.”
“Yeah. Kennedy’s good people.”
“I’m sure she’s great.” The words come out more bitter than I intended.
Leo is quiet for a moment. “You know you could tell her how you feel.” Of course he sees right through me. Of course he’s kind about it, too.
“She’s made it clear what she wants: Professional. Friendly. Civil.” I grab a fresh beer from the cooler closest to us and take a long drink. “Who am I to argue with that?”
“You’re the guy who’s been in love with Billie since May.”
I nearly choke. “What? Okay, that’s not?—”
“Darcy. Come on. I've known you for nearly our whole lives. You think I can’t tell?” He lowers his voice. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
Billie laughs at something Kennedy said, her head thrown back. “Respect her boundaries. Be her friend. Be professional.”
“This shit soundswaytoo familiar, man.” Leo knows all about pushing professional boundaries. It’s how he and Neve got together. But this is different. “And if that's not what sheactuallywants?”
“Then she knows where to find me.” I meet his eyes. “I told her she should take the lead. I meant it.”
Leo gives me an empathetic look and a shoulder squeeze. When more guests arrive, he’s pulled away to greet them. I stay at the grill, the perfect spot to watch without being obvious about it.
Kennedy stays close to Billie for the next hour. Not overbearing, not possessive, just… there. Interested. Attentive. Laughing at her jokes. Asking about her work. Being exactly the kind of person she should be with.
It’s excruciating.
I nurse my second beer and make small talk with other guests and pretend I'm not tracking every movement, every smile, every casual touch. When Kennedy hands her a fresh drink, when she leans in to hear her better over the music, when they end up on opposite cornhole teams, yet they high-five after good shots.
All of it. I see all of it.
And it’s killing me.
CHAPTER 23
NOW I HATE THE WORD NICE.
BILLIE
Kennedy is nice. That’s the worst part about this dumb situation—she’s exactly as Neve said she would be. Funny, interested in my work, asks good questions, none of which are condescending. And she laughs at my jokes.
On paper, she’s perfect.
In reality, I couldn’t want her any less.
We’re on our second game of cornhole—me and Kennedy versus Amanda and Matt—and I’m trying so hard to focus. To be present. To give this perfectlynicewoman a fair shot instead of tracking Darcy’s every movement across the yard like some desperate teenager.
I fail. Obviously.
“Nice shot,” Kennedy says when I manage to land a bag on the board. Her enthusiasm is sweet. Genuine. And I hate myself a little for not being able to return it.
