Starry Eyes(28)

Brett groans and lets his head loll backward for a moment. “Not now. Later. After dinner. People can’t sit here forever.”

“Everyone heads to the bonfire below the Sunset Deck,” Reagan confirms.

“The bartender’s walking back to the bar,” Lennon points out.

“So we find a way to divert him,” Brett says. “We just need people’s attention on the bonfire while we figure out a way to get him to leave the bar. Then, boom! We plunder his stash.”

I don’t like this plan. We’re surrounded by people. This isn’t like playing pranks on teachers, like that time Mr. Soniak exited English class to go to the restroom and left his phone unlocked on his desk, and Brett jumped out of his chair and used it to take photos of his ass before Mr. Soniak returned . . . which Brett later claimed was worth the detention he got.

Kendrick gives Brett a distrustful look. “Call me crazy, but isn’t that stealing?”

“It’s the very definition,” Lennon mumbles.

“You would know,” Brett says, waggling his brows.

I glance at Lennon, and he looks . . . embarrassed. I wonder what that’s all about.

“Look, people. They aren’t selling the wine,” Brett argues. “It’s free to all the guests. If I asked for a second helping of this braised sheep—”

“Lamb,” Lennon corrects in a weary voice.

“—they would bring it to me. It’s all built into the cost. We’re just getting our money’s worth.”

“My mom’s money, you mean,” Reagan says.

Brett grins. “Your mom is hot.”

“Gross,” Reagan says, smacking his shoulder with the backs of her fingers. And it is gross, but she doesn’t seem all that upset about it. Not about that, and not about Brett’s dicey proposal. Even Kendrick, who I would consider sensible, is convinced by Brett’s arguments. So maybe my bad feelings about it are unwarranted.

After Reagan informs us that we’re all going horseback riding tomorrow, Brett continues to hatch a wine-thieving plan throughout the rest of dinner. Dessert is served—some sort of weird strawberry sorbet with balsamic vinegar that I skip, because strawberries are on the “no” list when I’m having hive issues. And when guests begin filing outside to the Sunset Deck, lured by the scent of wood smoke and the sounds of acoustic guitar, opportunities to divert the bartender dwindle.

“I’ll figure something out,” Brett assures us. “The night is young.”

Reagan tugs him by the arm. “Come on. Let’s walk around.”

He flashes his dazzling grin at her and allows himself to be dragged from the table, briefly linking elbows with her as he makes some joke that I can’t hear. They’re so easy together, so touchy and lighthearted. I wish I could be as bold as Reagan. I wish he were linking arms with me.

But more than anything, I wish I didn’t feel Lennon’s gaze on my face. All that memory dredging we did over dinner is overlapping in my brain with Summer’s earlier assumptions about my relationship with Lennon. And a troublesome thought suddenly balloons.

Bogus gossip about my so-called hookup with Brett reached Summer’s ears.

Did it reach Lennon’s, too?

It bothers me that it might have, and it bothers me that I care. Then again, my caring about Lennon was never the problem. It was his caring about me. And a little peanut butter fudge and fond memories of bad shrimp aren’t enough to convince me that anything has changed.





9




* * *



Following Brett and Reagan, we all head outside to a deck studded with tin lanterns. It’s beautiful out here, actually. The sun still hasn’t completely fallen, but it’s getting close, and the mountains are limned in orange and pink behind darkening silhouettes of pine trees. Everything’s in that middle stage between day and night, which somehow seems more exciting out here in the wilderness than it does in the city. As though something’s on the verge of happening.

The deck quickly swells with people, some of them standing against the railing to watch the sunset, others claiming seats on the sprawling patio furniture to listen to folksy guitar music. Waiters begin circulating after-dinner coffee and tea. We stroll past Candy, who is chatting with some of her guests, and when she spots us, she calls Reagan over to meet them. The rest of us jog down the wide deck steps to a clearing and head toward the compound’s fire pit.

It’s a gorgeous bonfire, with rustic split-log benches circling it. A few guests are toasting marshmallows over the flames, and there’s some sort of make-your-own-s’mores station on a table. Nearby, white lights are strung on a cedar pergola, beneath which three lanes of horseshoes are set up on sandy ground.

“Want to play?” Kendrick asks Lennon. “I have to warn you, I’m pretty much a horseshoes genius, so I’ll probably beat you.”

“Is that right?”

“Legendary,” Kendrick confirms. “At least, I was when I was ten, which is the last—and, well, only time I’ve ever played.”

Lennon chuckles. “If it’s like ring toss at the fair, I kill at that. Let’s do this.” He glances at me. “You in?”

“Hand-eye coordination is not my strong suit,” I tell him. Every time I’ve ever played games where you have to get up in front of others and do something in a spotlight—like bowling or charades—I generally am too concerned about onlookers watching me and end up looking awkward. “Maybe I’ll watch a game and see how it’s played first.”