“Travers finally domesticated?”
“Look at him carrying her bag. That’s sick, bro. Love has ruined you.”
Drew flipped them off without breaking stride.
“I’m getting a drink,” he said near my ear. “Want one?”
“Something light.”
“Beer?”
“Something that tastes less like frat basement.”
“High maintenance.”
“Correct.”
His mouth brushed the side of my head in a quick kiss that was probably for the people watching.
“Stay here. Don’t wander.”
I gave him a look.
He pointed at my leg. “For safety.”
“Say that again and I will use this beer as a weapon.”
“That’s my girl.”
Then he walked toward the keg line, leaving me near a circle of folding chairs and girls who looked at me with varying levels of interest, envy, and disappointment.
I had just lowered myself carefully into one of the chairs when the air changed.
Not around Drew.
Behind me.
I turned my head.
Tristan Vale stood twenty feet away near the edge of another fire, black hoodie zipped, one hand wrapped around a beer he didn’t seem to be drinking. Stella stood beside him in a cream sweater and jeans tucked into boots, dark hair falling loose over one shoulder, face turned toward the ocean.
They looked annoyingly beautiful together.
Not loud.
Not performative.
Just… inevitable.
Like the world had been written around them and the rest of us were lucky to get dialogue.
My stomach tightened.
I hated her.
That was not fair.
I knew that.
