I blink at him, truly speechless. After a few beats of painful silence, I manage to respond, “I don’t?—”
“As friends,” he interrupts. “Or maybe just two people who don’t completely hate each other all the time.”
He’s still holding the gift, fidgeting with it.
I chew the inside of my lip, wondering if this is Dayton’s twisted version of an apology for eating me out or possibly the last thirteen years of being a dick. Still, I find myself nodding.
“Okay,” he says.
A loud knocking on the door interrupts the tense staring game we’re engaged in. I suck in a gulp of oxygen, silently thanking Silvie for the interruption. I move to open the door, but Dayton beats me to it.
“Here.” He thrusts the gift toward me. “Maybe it will go with your dress.”
I take the box from him, wondering why he would get me a gift.
“It was for your birthday, I just … it took me a while to find it.”
I open my mouth to say thank you, but he turns and opens the door.
“Hey, girl. Are you—oh my, you’re not Summer.”
I poke my head around his big frame. “Hi.”
Her eyes widen at me. “Hey, is this a bad time?” Her arms are loaded down with bags, hair curling rods sticking out of one and champagne bottles out of the other.
“No!” I nearly shout. “Not at all a bad time. Perfect time. Ideal, excellent time.”
Dayton reaches for Silvie’s bags, grabbing them both out of her hands. She lets him, still staring at me like,Who’s the hunk?
“Dayton was just leaving,” I say, grabbing her hand to pull her inside.
We’re both petite, but her hair is blonder than mine, and my skin has been in the bright Florida sun for longer so it’s tanner.
Dayton sets the bags down on my bed before turning back around.
He reaches out a hand toward Silvie. “Dayton Copeland,” he says, shaking her hand.
“Silverlyn Montclair, but everyone calls me Silvie.”
He nods before turning to me. “Do you need a ride to the wedding?”
I shake my head. It’s just down the beach.
He studies me with an unreadable expression before turning and walking out the door.
After it shuts behind him, Silvie grabs my arm. “Who wasthat?”
I reach down and pull the champagne bottle out of her bag. “That was my stepbrother.”
Her eyes somehow grow even bigger. I make ahmmphsound before moving over toward the kitchenette. I grab two champagne glasses from the open shelf.
“It gets so much worse.”
“Tell me.” She starts unpacking the hair tools and products.
I pour us each a generous glass before settling into the chair that she pushed in front of my floor-length mirror. She takes a brush and starts on my hair. I sip on my glass, the bubbles bursting on my tongue.
“He brought me those flowers.”
