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The photographer kept shooting as he crossed to the lounger, water running down the planes of his chest. Sofia handed him a towel without looking at him, like a pool concierge with immaculate discretion.

He dried his hair, pulled his shirt over his damp shoulders, then nonchalantly struck up conversation with one of the discarded husbands about the discoloration under the pool pavilion roof.

“Joists,” the man said, pointing upward with a crab leg.

Damian stepped into the shade and looked at the wood with genuine interest. “Water’s getting in behind the flashing. You can see where the grain’s lifted.”

Across the terrace, several women pretended not to watch him discuss structural rot. The effect was perfect. He was beautiful, wet, competent, and indifferent to the fact that half the party had rearranged itself around his body.

Blythe was the first to speak.

“So it’s true?”

Damian turned from examining the roofline. “What is?”

“You and Marlowe, you met after Aurora’s retreat?”

Damian’s gaze found mine and he smiled. It melted me a little. “Yes, it’s true. I met her at the farmer’s market.”

“The gelato,” Lark said, delighted by her advanced knowledge.

“The gelato,” he agreed. “We argued briefly about pistachio and cookie dough, and the rest is history. I don’t know what happened at that retreat, but I know nothing in my life has felt accidental since.”

“I told you,” Vivienne said triumphantly, “Aurora’s work is extraordinary.”

Kai arrived right on cue, wine bottle in hand.

“Callie thought the whole thing was nonsense, too,” he said, examining the cork. “Then she met me.”

“And now she knows a great deal about wine,” I added.

“Mostly that I’m expensive and improve with air,” he said, topping up Blythe’s glass.

The women laughed.

Caspian didn’t.

“I’m considering signing up for the solstice retreat. It looks spectacular,” I said, serenely swirling my wine while my heart hammered.

Vivienne looked at me, probably asking herself why I thought I could afford it.

“When is it?” Lark said breezily, her phone in her hand.

“The twenty-first,” I said.

“I’m considering it,” Vivienne said. “Not for the twin flame energy, of course. For spiritual growth.”

“Of course,” I said.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sloane reach for her phone. Then Blythe.

I was ferrying an armful of dead wine bottles toward the kitchen when Davina intercepted me, away from the others, in the shade where the terrace gave out. She’d been holding the same inch of rosé for an hour.

“Can I ask you something?” she said. “And you can tell me it’s none of my business.”

“Of course.”

She glanced toward the pavilion, where Damian was still letting a husband explain flashing to him incorrectly.