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When his eyes return to mine, something in him has shifted. Resignation or awareness. Of what, I’m not sure. Maybe that he can’t get rid of me that easily. Maybe that we—Becca and me—aren’t intimidated by his mansion by a lake.

Or maybe it’s that look he gave me, too low to go unnoticed. And now I know something about him.

I hook one thumb lightly at my waistband and adjust it slowly.

Paul is looking, but not. His throat moves.

I tilt my head. “Someone said there were pool towels?”

For half a second, he looks genuinely lost.

“By the cabana.”

“Good to know.”

He nods. “I should get back to the guests.”

“Sure.”

He turns away, then pauses.

“Clint.”

I look at him.

“I’m sorry Renny didn’t give you a real invitation to his life.”

The sentence hits dead center without warning.

Paul walks away before I can answer.

Across the pool, Becca laughs as Georgia dips her backward, one heel kicked high, the pool boys cheering like she’s the best thing grief has produced all afternoon.

I look to the cabana and the towels stacked in neat white rolls.

I step out from the pergola and into the sun.

I walk to the empty chair beside Becca’s dress, then sit and pull off my boots.

Eyes start to find me. I feel them before I count them.

I stand and slowly unbutton my shirt. The shirt slides off my shoulders, and the sun hits my skin. I toss the shirt over the chair with Becca’s dress.

I do not look for Paul.

The pool boys have stopped clapping for Becca.

One of them whistles low.

Georgia’s voice cuts across the pool. “Oh, good. My husband has arrived.”

Laughter ripples. My face heats.

I reach for my belt.

The second before I touch it, I almost stop.

I think of Paul’s eyes dropping to my waistband. I think of him recovering too slowly.