I grin into my beer.
Well.
There goes my evening.
Kane wanders up beside me with a burger and the kind of expression people wear when they’ve already decided not to behave.
“You smiling like that means someone’s in danger.”
I nod toward the table.
“White dress. Boots.”
He follows my line of sight.
Then he lets out a low whistle.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Mine.”
He snorts.
“You haven’t even spoken to her.”
“Didn’t say I was subtle.”
He takes a bite of his burger and talks around it like an animal.
“I think she’s one of the freshman soccer girls. From Texas, maybe.”
I look back at her.
That tracks.
She’s got that polished Southern thing going on—the pageant face, the perfect posture, the lethal femininity that makes boys think she’ll be easy and men know better.
“Texas,” I say.
Kane smirks.
“You naming her before you even know her?”
“Efficient.”
“Delusional.”
“Jealous.”
He flips me off and heads toward the fire pit where half the basketball team is already turning a corn hole game into a moral emergency.
I barely see him go.
Because Texas just turned her head.
Not toward me.
Toward the shoreline.
