Page 5 of Mad Girl

“Girls,” Libby called from the bottom of the staircase. “Come down and meet Michael’s friend.”

Tinsley’s brown eyes flew open wide with excitement as she yanked me up with her.

Taking a deep breath, I smoothed both hands down my dress, which I hated not only for its hideous dahlia print, but also because it vaguely resembled something a 1950s housewife might’ve worn: short-sleeved and fitted up top, with a belt to accentuate the waist and a skirt that flared to the knee. My dad had chosen it during a recent shopping trip, the same way he chose most of the dresses in my wardrobe.

I hated being on display as I walked downstairs, the other two girls trailing close behind. How everyone at the bottom of the staircase, including you, had no choice but to watch as I drew closer to the final step. How I probably looked—to you, at least—like a normal girl. Sweet, even.

The Stepford-wife dress. The lack of makeup. The bright green eyes. My dark brown hair, braided to one side, made to look messy on purpose.

I bet my appearance gave you a false sense of security. Made me appear more innocent than I was.

But that’s the chilling thing about threats. Right, Casey?

They don’t always look like threats.

Sometimes they’re wrapped in pretty packages—with noses that crinkle adorably when they smile and a laugh that makes you dare to dream again—and that’s why they’re so very dangerous.

You never really see them.

Even when they’re standing right in front of you, trying to tell you who they really are.

At the bottom of the stairs, Tinsley bolted past me, swooping in before Libby could make the introduction herself, much to Politician Barbie’s dismay.

“Hello.” She tucked her phone inside a dress pocket and thrust out her hand, a faint blush creeping up her warm brown cheeks. “I’m Tinsley Tenbrook, a family friend.”

Shockingly, you were far more handsome up close. Blue eyes. Phenomenal bone structure. Nice lips, a little on the fuller side. Perfect white teeth. You chuckled as you grasped her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Tinsley. I’m Casey Anderson.”

You’d spoken with an English accent, and that surprised me. Combined with the rich timbre of your voice, it set my heart fluttering harder than a hummingbird’s wings. Tinsley swooned, too, clasping both hands over her heart. She had a thing for English guys like Tom Holland and Harry Styles, relentlessly stalked members of the Royal Family, and still gushed over some hot British guy she’d met over Christmas break the previous year during a trip to London with her dad. Her favorite Christmas movies were Love Actually and The Holiday. The latter had always been one of mine, too.

With you standing so close, I ducked underneath my dad’s arm, hoping to watch you from a safe distance. Nic smelled of scotch and his bergamot aftershave—crisp citrus with a hint of smoke—and my nerves settled. Just barely.

You took Bree’s outstretched hand next. “Bree,” you said. “I believe we’ve already met.”

Bree smiled. “Nice to see you again.”

“And this,” Libby said, tugging me away from my dad, “is Elliot. She’s Michael’s oldest and dearest friend.”

Your eyes—the sparkling blue of the Atlantic on a perfect sunny day—roamed over my face in a way that felt intimately familiar, causing a weird tingle at the back of my throat.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, slipping my hand into yours.

“Elliot.” The warmth of your smile sent a jolt of electricity through me. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

Mesmerized, I stood there a moment longer before withdrawing my hand. As I slinked away, I noticed Michael off to the side with his arm tossed around Sienna. But his eyes were on me.

Michael Harris. The girls at my school thought him insanely hot, and he probably was—with the stormy eyes and dark blonde hair and tall athletic build—but to me, he was just Michael. My oldest and dearest friend. My rock. The person intimately familiar with that dark flame flickering deep inside of me.

While Libby introduced you to my dad, I flashed Michael a small smile and held his gaze. It took him a couple seconds, but he smiled back.

Nic gripped your hand while you said something super polite like Happy to meet you or Lovely home, stumbling over your words a little, clearly nervous, but that was nothing new. Most people find my dad intimidating. He’s that familiar cliché: tall, dark, and handsome. Rich. Owns one-third of the real estate in Boston, a ton of property in New York, and even more all over New England. But the most intimidating characteristic of Nic’s is that, when he first meets a person, he does this thing where he takes his time sizing them up, letting his gaze linger a bit too long, until he makes them squirm. He’s suspicious of everyone, especially strangers. Falling in love with a coldhearted bitch who’d wind up abandoning her own child will do that to a person, I guess.

Nic slapped you on the shoulder. “Thanks, Casey. We don’t get to meet many of Michael’s friends. You must be special.” He let the comment sink in, his shrewd gaze slowly roaming over you, like he was searching for it—your special thing. “What can I get you to drink, son?”

Once the adults had directed their attention elsewhere, the three of you moved to the Garland Room, where you claimed one of the cream sofas that faced each other in front of the fireplace. While Sienna and Michael huddled over her phone, your gaze drifted over the mahogany-paneled walls and built-in shelves, filled with family photos and leather-bound books; over the fireplace in the center and the big candlestick sconces that flanked it; over the broken pediment frame above the mantelpiece that held the painted portrait of Garland James Bancroft, the room’s namesake.

More than once, your gaze drifted back to Garland, likely drawn to the deep furrow of his dark brow and the formidable glimmer behind his slightly narrowed eyes, to the hard set of his mouth and the stiff white collar jutting up from his elegant black suit.

Garland had a way of fixing you in place—like the eye in the ceiling did—but with a sharper kind of scrutiny. He didn’t just see you. He looked through you, and no matter what he beheld, Garland always found it lacking. To him, we were all disappointments. Not just me.