Chapter 1

“I think we might possibly, maybe, have made a mistake,” I said.

At the top of Hemlock House’s grand staircase, the bride-to-be asked, “What about this ceiling? Could we smash it out?”

My friends looked to me for a response.

The Last Picks—they called themselves that because they were always the last picks in gym (and for pretty much everything else)—were here today because: a) they were almost always here, and b) they were providing emotional support, and c) this was all Millie’s fault. (As a side note, I definitely fell into that “last picks” category too.) There were five of us: Millie, who was like a tiny blond version of a caffeinated Energizer bunny. Indira, with her laugh lines and that lone shock of white hair like a witch. Fox, their graying hair buzzed—today, under a top hat that featured little gears and welding goggles, and which didn’t go with what they had told me (at length) was called a seductress blouse. And Keme, short and lean and tan from a summer of surfing, his long hair pushed behind his ears.

“Oh my God,” Millie whisper-screamed. “They’re so in love! Isn’t this the cutest? This is the CUTEST!”

“Mom,” the groom-to-be shouted down the stairs. “Can we do something about this ceiling?”

“The cutest,” Fox murmured. They sounded like someone trying to pick out their favorite knife.

Keme didn’t quite make a growling noise, but he folded his arms—audibly—and set his jaw as he stared at the happy couple.

“Tell them no.” Indira nudged me. “Tell them they can’t make any alterations.”

“Why me?” I asked.

The groom’s mother and father and grandmother were making their way up the stairs now: Mom on her phone. Dad panting. Grandma testing each step by hammering down with the ferrule of her cane.

“Because it’s your house,” Millie said unhelpfully.

“Because I already had to stop them with the wallpaper,” Fox said with a definite tone.

Keme gave me a look that translated to: Don’t be such a wuss.

“Because this was your idea,” Indira said.

I gaped at them. “This was Millie’s idea!”

Millie nodded enthusiastically and then said, “I bet her dress is going to be gorgeous.”

There wasn’t much doubt about that since the Gauthier-Meadows clan, who were currently occupying my grand staircase, had Scrooge McDuck kind of money. And I needed money. When I’d decided to stay in Hastings Rock, I’d been certain that I could make my savings stretch for a year. That seemed like a reasonable amount of time—a year to get settled, to really start writing. The thing about suddenly coming into possession of a Class V haunted mansion, though? (That’s my personal ranking system, by the way.) They cost a lot of money. Buckets of money. Even when they’re in great condition, like Hemlock House. And since I was still, uh, brainstorming my brilliant masterpiece of a novel that would doubtless bring me instant fame and fortune, and since I had no employable skills, I needed to do something. Also, in Millie’s (and, I suppose, my) defense, the idea had sounded like a good one. Hemlock House—with its wainscoting and damask wallpaper and antique Chesterfields and curios and, most importantly, books—was beautiful. It was enormous. And it was one of those rare period homes that had survived into the twenty-first century relatively unscathed. Combined with the scenery of the Oregon Coast at its peak in early September, it was a picture-perfect place for a wedding. Or so Millie and I had claimed in the online ads.

We had not accounted for things like, I don’t know, acoustics.

The bride-to-be tilted her head back and belted out a note.

Millie winced.

Keme covered his ears.

Fox said, “It’s like someone stuffed a cat inside a set of bagpipes.”

“It’s a travesty,” Indira said.

“It’s the acoustics,” the bride-to-be announced. “They’re all wrong.”

Even the groom-to-be looked like he was having a bit of trouble swallowing that explanation. A laugh from farther down the hall made me glance over. The groom-to-be’s identical twin was leaning against a piece of gorgeous period furniture that Indira insisted on calling a commode. (I refused to call it that because, as far as I could tell, it was just a chest of drawers.) Next to him, the maid of honor (to be?) was covering a grin.

“Mom,” the groom-to-be said. “The ceiling?”

“I’ll call a contractor,” she said without looking up from her phone.

Fox hissed.

Indira shoved me forward.

The sound of my steps must have drawn their attention, because every eye turned toward me. Mom even deigned to look up from her phone.

“Uh, you know,” I said. “About the house.”

“You can’t rip out the ceiling,” Fox prompted in a whisper.

“Why not?” the grandmother asked. “We’ll pay for it.”

“Well,” I said.

Apparently, they wanted more than that.

The twin looked like he was trying not to laugh again.

“It’s not so much the money,” I said, “as it is that you, um, can’t.”

“What’s he saying?” the bride-to-be asked. “I don’t understand what he’s saying.”

“It’s a historic house,” I said. “And the contract clearly says no alterations.”

“But the acoustics,” the bride-to-be wailed. “My head. Baby, I’m getting a headache.”

“Why’s it such a big deal?” Dad asked. He was too loud, and it didn’t go well with his rounded shoulders and potbelly. “It’s a house. And we said we’d pay.”

Mom gave him a freezing glance and said, “Get the contract, Gary.”

Gary grimaced at her; it took me a moment to realize it was supposed to be a smile. He scurried down the steps, darted past us—with a glare for me—and disappeared outside. Behind him, he left a trail of crumbling dirt that his hiking boots—perfectly appropriate for a wedding rehearsal, right?—had quite literally tracked throughout the house.

“Sharian,” Fox said, “why don’t we talk about the reception? Millie, come on.”

“And Mrs. Meadows,” Indira said, “I wanted to go over a few of the dietary restrictions your guests noted.”

The double distractions broke the tension of the moment. Sharian (the bride-to-be) dragged Mason (the groom-to-be) down the stairs, and they followed Fox and Millie into the living room. Indira moved to join Mom and Grandma, where they began to confer.

Keme hadn’t abandoned me, although he was giving me a look that mingled disappointment and amusement.

“Fine,” I said. “Next time, you can tell them.”

He rolled his eyes and headed toward the kitchen.

“Hey.”

The voice came from behind me, and I turned. It was the twin, Cole. He and his brother were unobjectionably handsome: dark hair, dark eyes, athletic builds even though they were going into their thirties. Mason (the groom-to-be) wore his hair in a side part with waves, and he looked every bit the high-achieving son of a fantabulously wealthy family, aside from a coconut-bead necklace—which felt like a lame bit of leftover teenagery. Cole (aka Trouble) wore a matching necklace, but he kept his hair shorter. It was hard to name a specific style since he looked like he’d just woken up. Under a bridge. After a seriously rough night. The joggers and hoodie weren’t helping his case; they must have been expensive, but they looked lived-in, to put it generously.

“Hi,” I said.

“You’re cute.” He leaned against a console table. It rocked, and a porcelain vase wobbled. Cole said a word you’re not supposed to say in front of your grandma and caught the vase (barely). Then he looked at me.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’ve got to check on a few things.”

Which was a total lie. But I did walk purposefully toward the den and open the door and stand there, hands on hips, pretending to scrutinize something. Through the window, I had a good line of sight to Gary (father-of-the-groom), who was currently vaping and playing a game on his phone. I thought it was a calculated risk; Becky (mother-of-the-groom) did not seem like the kind of woman who tolerated loafing around.

“Okay,” Trouble (aka Cole) said behind me, “that was embarrassing.”

Trying not to sigh, I turned around. Again.

“I was trying to look cool,” he said with a grin.

“I liked the part at the end where you almost broke an irreplaceable vase.”

His grin got bigger. “That wasn’t my favorite part, actually.”

“Uh huh.”

“My favorite part was when I told you how cute you are.”

I rolled my eyes. Loudly.

That made him burst out laughing. He stepped in, closing the distance between us, and all of a sudden Keme was there. Keme had to be five or six inches shorter than this guy, and although Keme was definitely stronger than he looked—cue one humiliating bout of Millie-inspired wrestling—he was still a teenager (a teenager, it must be noted, who was perpetually hungry, ate everything Indira put in front of him, and still looked like he’d disappear if he turned sideways). Cole probably had thirty pounds on him, and those thirty pounds were muscle.

None of it slowed Keme down. He put himself between us, hand on Cole’s chest, and shoved. Cole took a surprised step back and said, “Whoa.”

Keme glowered at him.

“It’s all right,” I said, touching Keme’s arm. The boy’s whole body was tight with a kind of fight-or-flight energy; Keme was practically buzzing with it. I’d never seen him like this before. “It’s okay,” I said in a softer voice. “We were talking.”

Keme shook his head at my words and then pointed to his eye and then to Cole. It was getting easier to understand Keme, although I still wished he’d talk (Indira insisted he was perfectly able to, but I’d never heard a word from him).

I tried to interpret his gesture. “You’ve got your eye on him—”

Keme shook his head and pointed to his eye again.

Then I saw it. “Oh. He’s high.”

Cole laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not, like, super high. Just enough to float through this. Sorry, did I do something wrong?”

“No,” I said. I squeezed Keme’s arm and got him moving. “I’m sorry about the confusion. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, of course—”

“Great. Excuse us.”

I steered Keme into what was called the north lobby (because in a place like Hemlock House, even weird little side pockets needed their own special names). Voice low, I asked, “What’s going on?”

Keme wouldn’t look at me.

“Hey. Mister.”

Slowly, he dragged his eyes to my face. His arm was still tense under my hand. He set his jaw.

After a deep breath, I said, “Thank you.”

A hint of confusion showed in his eyes.

“For caring,” I said. “And for being worried.”

He shrugged.

“But,” I said.

He tried to pull free.

I held on. “But,” I said again, “you can’t go around pushing people and—”

Keme yanked his arm away and, before I could stop him, pushed through the door to the servants’ dining room. A moment later, a second door slammed, and I knew he’d left Hemlock House in true teenager fashion.

“Everything okay?”

That was Trouble with a capital T again.

“Do you always sneak up behind people?” I asked.

The smile made him look younger. “I’m off my game today.”

The maid of honor was watching us from down the hall, and she looked like she was enjoying every minute of this agony.

“Can we start over?” Cole asked.

“I don’t have an unlimited supply of vases.”

He grinned and said, “Hi, I’m Cole.”

“You look familiar. I think I’ve seen you before.”

“Nope, that was my twin. I’m way better looking.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s easy to tell us apart. For example, I’m a lefty. I know for a fact that Taylor Swift is a million times better than Beyonce, I’ve got way better handwriting, I never wear red because that was the only color my mom let me wear when I was growing up, and Mason is a total lightweight when it comes to, uh, certain substances.”

“You’re losing me,” I told him.

“I’ve definitely got a better sense of humor, I’m not a corporate sellout, oh, yeah, and I’ve got these little freckles in a certain spot.” He gave me the grin again. “But I need to know you a little better before I show you.”

“Cute.”

“See? I think you’re cute. You think I’m cute. We’re a match.”

In spite of myself, I laughed. “Let’s keep this strictly professional.”

“God, no. That sounds terrible. Can I take you to dinner?”

I made a noise and slid around him.

Cole moved with me, stepping into my path. “Please let me take you to dinner.”

“I’ve got to work.”

“We can go whenever you’re done. I’m a bum and a loser, to quote my parents, so I’m at your beck and call.”

“There’s a million things to do before the wedding.”

“But you have to eat sometime, right? What if I pick up food and bring it over?”

I tried to slide around him again.

He moved with me again. “Please? It’s dinner. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.” He held up two fingers. “I won’t even get high.”

“I think the Scouts do three fingers.”

“But you knew what I was going for! See how in sync we are?”

That made me laugh again.

I almost said no. But he had a great smile: big and bright and wide. And I’d always liked confident guys. And, if I had a gun to my head, I could admit I was, well, lonely.

Not lonely lonely. I mean, I had Millie and Fox and Indira and Keme—they were the best thing to happen to me in a long time. They were my friends. We were the Last Picks, and I loved spending time with them. But friends or no friends, the transition from a long-term, serious relationship to being totally, absolutely, unrelentingly single hadn’t been easy. I missed quiet nights staying in with my person. I missed the easiness of casual touch. I missed intimacy—not sex, but, yeah, that too. And while I wasn’t under any delusions that Mr. Trouble with a capital T was going to be my one true love, he seemed sweet and fun and unexpectedly earnest. He’d already made me laugh twice; that was a good sign, right?

“What are your parents going to say?”

“Oh God, they’ve known we’re bi for, like, ever.”

That wasn’t what I’d expected, but it was an interesting tidbit nevertheless. “Not what I meant.”

“If I skip all the pre-wedding festivities? I’m a constant disappointment. They’d be worried if I didn’t screw things up.”

“That’s not as encouraging as you think.”

“I feel like you’re about to say yes.”

“Dinner,” I said.

His grin lit up his face.

I held up a finger. “Only dinner.”

“I told you: I’m a perfect gentleman.”

“Who’s also a perpetual disappointment.”

“Well, yeah,” he said. He had a dimple, I realized. An extremely dangerous dimple. “Have you met my family? So, if I could get your number…”

As I finished rattling off digits, raised voices erupted in the living room. Cole’s expression changed to resignation, and I slipped past him (successfully, this time) to return to the hall.

The pocket doors to the living room were open, and the family was clustered around Mason (the groom-to-be) in a shouting scrum: Becky (Mom), Gary (Dad), Sharian (the bride-to-be), and Jodi (Grandma).

“What are you talking about?” Gary boomed. “You’re out of your mind.”

Becky said something that, once you cleaned it up, was something along the lines of “Are you an idiot?”

Sharian was wailing, “I don’t understand. I don’t understand.”

“It’s my money,” Mason said. “That’s what the trust says. It’s mine once I turn thirty-one. I can do whatever I want with it.”

“But I don’t understand,” Sharian said. “My head. Oh my God, my head, I’m going to be sick.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” Mason said. “I’m giving it away to charity. All of it. End of conversation. It’s mine, and I can do whatever I want—”

Mason’s grandmother slapped him. The crack of the blow silenced everyone. Mason shook his head; to judge by the look in his eyes, he’d never been hit before. The grandmother raised her hand like she might hit him again, but instead, she spoke, her voice low and controlled and furious. “It is my money, you stupid, selfish boy.”

No one said anything for what felt like a long time. No one moved. No one breathed.

“I’m going to be sick,” Sharian moaned again. She took a tottering step. “Penny? Where’s Penny?”

That was when I noticed the maid of honor was missing.

Next to me, Cole let out a harsh breath. His cheeks were flushed, and his hands were trembling; he tried hiding them in his pockets, but the first time, he couldn’t get them in. He didn’t even seem to realize I was still there as he said to himself, “Mase, you moron.”

I needed to say something. I needed to suggest we take a break. Maybe everyone needed some space.

But as I opened my mouth, something impossible happened.

A man walked into the hall. He looked impeccably handsome: square jawed, swooshy haired, that strong nose that he didn’t like, but that was, of course, perfect for his face. Cardigan and chinos and boat shoes. He looked like he’d fallen out of a different time, a different place—somewhere, undoubtedly, with a lot more money.

He glanced around the hall, confusion scrawled across those yacht club features, and then his eyes settled on me. The old, familiar smile spread across his face, and for a moment, I forgot how it had ended.

“Dash!” he called out.

“Uh, hi, Hugo.”