I studied the men so intently that I almost shrieked when something brushed my ear.
Brooks’s voice was deep. “Sizing up your conquests?”
I slapped his shoulder, and he kissed my cheek.
“Not now, Brooks!” Scout hit his shoulder next. “You’re cockblocking.”
“Look.” I redirected her with my hand, pointing. “At your sister.”
Georgia and Alden had reached the back of the room, where Alden wasted no time introducing her to his dad. If Georgia was nervous to meet the mighty Easton, she didn’t show it. She looked graceful and poised shaking his hand, and he grinned back at her.
“She fits in better than we do.” The words were out of my mouth before I realized it. But they were true. We had to rehearse; Georgia was effortless.
Scout’s mouth lifted at the corners, the hint of a resigned smile. “I bet she gets it all, Iz. The rich husband, the stable of horses, becomes a cultural—whatever.”
“Anthropologist.” That was what Georgia was going to school for.
“Exactly. She’s so smart.” Scout’s tentative smile turned broad. “She won’t have to hustle.”
I knew what she meant—Georgia wouldn’t have to hustlelike us—but I was okay with it. That was how it worked with Georgia. She was the one person we wanted better for than we wanted for ourselves. Maybe it was a big-sister thing.
We watched her a moment longer, my chest warming at how classy she looked shaking Reese Griffin’s hand, and then I noticed something. “What’s with Alden? His face is making my skin itch.”
Alden was watching Georgia introduce herself with a strangely hungry look, his eyes darting back and forth between Georgia and his dad, like he was trying to lick up every last detail. Even from afar, I could see the vein in his neck pumping fast, his dark eyes aglow at his father’s obvious approval.
“I doubt he’s ever introduced a girl to his dad before,” Scout said. “He’s probably getting off on how normal Georgia makes him seem.”
I shook my head. “I will never understand what Georgia sees in him.”
Scout turned to me with wide eyes, and waved her hand around, as if to say,The mansion. Duh.
A bored voice interrupted. “I guess my dad’s letting in Z-listers these days. Sad to see.”
We turned to find Dakota and Emmy. I suppressed a groan. They both held crystal tumblers—heavy, ornate glasses, not the kind you used at a party. They must’ve taken them from the Banks’ private cupboards. I could smell the peaty scent of booze from here, see the signs of their intoxication. Dakota’s pale cheeks were flushed, Emmy’s blond hair stringy. Emmy wore a sequined dress the same shade of green as Scout’s, as if they’d planned to match. They definitely hadn’t. The only difference between them was—as an actress once remarked of Marilyn Monroe—Emmy was “eminently braless.”
I eyed Dakota’s glass. “Your dad doesn’t care that you’re drinking in public?”
She rolled her eyes. “As if that man has ever told me no.”
In my opinion, Dakota was as weird as Alden, only more abrasive.
“Speaking of your dad, who are those guys with him?” Scout nodded at the back of the room. “The ones Georgia and Alden are talking to. Are they important?”
Well played—if we had to suffer Dakota, we might as well get some intel out of her.
She snickered. “What, the Rat Pack?”
“They’re Easton’s besties.” Emmy tried to imitate Dakota’s disaffected tone, but the eager way she held herself betrayed her. Unfortunately for her, she wasn’t a good actress.
Dakota rolled her eyes again, her signature move. “They usually hole up in my dad’s study and drink their special scotch during these parties.”
“Where’s your mom?” I asked.
Emmy raised an eyebrow. “Nosy much?”
Dakota swirled her drink. “She already medicated herself to sleep. She hates these things.”
Emmy giggled.
