Chapter 9

Charlotte wanted to scream.

She wanted to kick at Cinnamon's sides again and take off through the woods, her middle finger raised in farewell as she went.

Really, she wanted to go back in time and simply observe Brighton fly by her on the path, dark hair flapping in the frosty air, doing nothing whatsoever about her ex-fiancée's brush with death.

Oh, wow, poor thing. I hope she's okay .

But no, of course she had to play the hero, had to swoop in and clean up Brighton Fairbrook's mess, just like she'd always done—holding Brighton's hair back so she could puke up all the J?gerbombs she drank at their first party their freshman year at Berklee, pretty much dragging her across the finish line of their music theory class because Brighton had always relied on her ear far too much, covering for her when she skipped AP English their senior year of high school to stand in line for tickets to see Florence + the Machine.

The list went on and on, ten years of half-baked plans and impulsivity that Charlotte had tried her best to hold together, make cohesive.

Make last.

Let's get married.

That had been Brighton's biggest impulse of all.

Let's get married .

Whispered on the lakeshore when they were twenty-two years old. They'd just arrived home from Berklee for Christmas break of their junior year. The Fairbrook house was glowing and alive with soft lights and wreaths, with candles and hot toddies and presents under the Christmas tree—some of them with Charlotte's name on them—while Charlotte's house was dark.

Closed up, even.

When Charlotte had slid her key into the front door, a blast of cold, stale air had rushed out to meet her, nothing but the single Tiffany lamp on the front hall's console table to light her way, casting watery blue and red shadows on the wall.

The lamp Charlotte's mother only left on during the day if she was out of town.

Charlotte had called Anna then, pressing her phone to her ear, her heart thrumming under her ribs, but she already knew, even before her mother picked up, voice casual and crackling over the distance, that Anna Donovan was not at home to greet her daughter with Christmas cheer.

"I'm in London," Anna had said. "I didn't tell you?"

"I'm sure you did," Charlotte had said, even though she knew her mother hadn't said a word to her about a trip to London over the holidays.

"It's a research trip for that Jack the Ripper copycat book I'm working on," Anna said. "I'll be back New Year's Day. See you then?"

"See you then." Charlotte had ended the call before her voice split, tears clouding into her chest and up her throat. She allowed herself to break, overwhelmed by the stress of the fall semester and her upcoming spring show, by this constant desperation for Brighton to do well too, even as she felt Brighton's interest in classical training waning more and more. It was too much, December closing in on her, reminding her she was nothing, no one. She sat on the bottom of the stairs, the Tiffany lamplight pooling at her feet, and cried.

Brighton had found her like that. Charlotte hadn't meant for her to see. While Brighton was the safest place, Charlotte's person , she didn't like losing her shit quite that much in front of anyone, even her one true love, who she knew would take her in her arms and whisper in her ear how much she loved her, how beautiful she was, how perfect.

And that's exactly what Brighton did.

She held Charlotte and whispered and kissed her tears away and then led her out to the snowy beach where the sun was setting over the frigid water, icy waves frozen in time.

"So Anna's a narcissistic bitch," Brighton had said, her fingers laced with Charlotte's as they walked. "This we know."

Charlotte nodded, but the tears started flowing again anyway, evidence that Charlotte still cared a little too much, still wanted Anna to not be the way she was.

"Hey," Brighton said, stopping them and turning to face Charlotte. "Fuck her. It's not you, it's her, okay? Remember that."

Charlotte nodded again, her forehead pressed to Brighton's, her heart finally slowing down, settling into this familiar rhythm.

Brighton kissed her then, softly, sweetly, gloved fingers on her face. "I'm your family. You're mine. Forever, right?"

"Forever," Charlotte said.

"Let's get married," Brighton said then, barely even taking a breath before the words tumbled from her cool mouth.

Charlotte leaned back to see her more clearly. "What?"

"You heard me," Brighton said, smiling. "Marry me."

Charlotte shook her head but couldn't keep the smile off her face. "When?"

"Today?" Brighton had said, and they both laughed. "Tomorrow, next month, next year, I don't even care when. Just say yes. Just say it'll happen."

Charlotte didn't have to think much more past that. Brighton was her best friend, her love, her everything. There was no other answer to give, no other words that even existed.

"Yes. Of course, yes."

Brighton had curled her arms around Charlotte's waist then, twirling her in a circle on the snowy shore, their kisses sweet at first but then turning wild, warm breaths clouding between them in the cold. They'd run into Charlotte's house after that, not even bothering with lights, throwing clothes off as they stumbled to Charlotte's bedroom and fell onto her bed in the growing dark, limbs slotting together like puzzle pieces. Brighton parted Charlotte's legs, her fingers slipping inside, palm pressing down right where Charlotte needed it, so perfect, and Charlotte came so fast, Brighton's name a cry into the chilly air. Then she'd flipped her fiancée onto her back, Brighton laughing, a laugh that turned into the softest gasp as Charlotte's mouth—

"So what's your favorite board game?"

Now, Charlotte startled at Brighton's deadpan voice, blinked the Winter River woods back into focus. They were riding again, slower this time, Brighton and Charlotte positioned right behind Jenny and Shannon for safety's sake. Charlotte glanced behind her at Sloane, now riding next to Wes, who offered her a wave. Sloane shot her a thumbs-up, mouthed "Good luck," and then actually waggled her eyebrows.

This was a disaster.

This whole group would have her and Brighton engaged by the time they reached the hot chocolate and doughnuts awaiting them at the end of the trail.

"Mine is Balderdash," Brighton said, a sarcastic lilt to her voice.

"What?" Charlotte asked, adjusting in her saddle. She was flustered, uncomfortable, memories from the day Brighton became her fiancée making everything feel blurry and unreal. She didn't often reminisce about her sex life with Brighton, but when she made that mistake…

She sighed, rubbed her forehead, and thought of broken E strings, notes just a hair off-key, the squeak of her rosin across her bow.

"Making up vocabulary and definitions," Brighton said, unbelievably still rambling. "It's a good game."

"Yes," Charlotte said, rolling her shoulders back. "I'm sure you're wonderful at nonsense words and meanings."

"Lola—"

"Stop calling me that," Charlotte said through clenched teeth, her voice low and almost dangerous. After everything Brighton had done, Brighton's name for her should be like a cold shower, but no. The low, nearly whispered way Brighton said it, like a prayer almost—the sound thrummed between her legs, instant and overwhelming, and her position in this damn saddle made getting her mind back on track decidedly more difficult.

"You want everyone here to know our history?" Charlotte said, focusing on the hum of irritation just below her skin. "Is that it?"

"You're the one acting like a spoiled child around me."

"I'm acting like someone who doesn't like you. I think that's allowed."

"I don't want everyone to know," Brighton said. "I just want you to act like it happened at all."

Charlotte laughed. "Oh, I'm well aware of what happened."

Brighton released a grunt of frustration. Her horse whinnied a little, swerving to the right and nearly colliding with Cinnamon.

"Shit," Brighton said, pulling on the reins.

"Would you hold it together?" Charlotte said.

"I'm trying," Brighton said, patting her horse's flank awkwardly. "You could help by not being such a coldhearted bitch."

This time Cinnamon huffed and sped up a bit.

"I think I'm entitled," Charlotte said when she'd calmed her horse.

"Okay, so I'm the bad guy here, I get it, but—"

"I don't think you're the bad guy, Brighton," Charlotte said. Her mind cleared, a stoic calm settling into her bones, any and all arousal vanishing like a puff of smoke. She knew she should shut up, just swallow what she was going to say next, but it was necessary. She had to let Brighton know, in no uncertain terms, that any kind of camaraderie between them during this trip wasn't going to happen. They weren't going to kiss and make up. They weren't going to fake a cutesy little romance for these ridiculous Two Turtledoves events.

They weren't going to do anything.

Up ahead, the trees broke and the path widened, spilling out into the backyard of a green two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch and twinkle lights in the bushes. Tables were set up with hot chocolate and pastries, a fire crackled in a stone firepit, and a Bluetooth speaker played "I'll Be Home for Christmas."

"I don't think you're the bad guy," Charlotte said again as she turned Cinnamon to the right and kicked at his sides with her heels to speed him up. "I don't think about you at all."

And with that, she moved Cinnamon into a faster canter away from Brighton. She waited for a wash of triumph, her parting words delivered perfectly—indifferent, quiet, calm. Surely, that would be it. Surely, Brighton would take the hint.

She pulled Cinnamon to a stop and slid out of the saddle, boots crunching on the snowy ground, then took a second to get herself together, brushing her gloved hand over Cinnamon's neck. He huffed, angled his head to nuzzle her hand, and she leaned against him.

The feeling of triumph didn't come.

She waited, heard the rest of the group dismounting and chatting, exclaiming at the picturesque winter scene, but the only thing she felt was a knot in her throat, the desire to press her face to Cinnamon's flank and cry.

A few deep breaths helped, and she rolled her shoulders back, ready to get the rest of this shit show over with. As she turned, though, she found herself face-to-face with Brighton again, her face a storm of emotion.

Brighton had never been good at holding back, holding it all in.

"You want to blame me for what happened?" she said quietly. "Fine. I get it."

"Brighton, don't—"

"No." Brighton held up a hand. "You don't get to deliver your Anna Donovan one-liners and walk away. You don't get to do that."

"I get to do whatever I want," Charlotte said, her jaw tense.

"Why? Because I made a mistake when we were twenty-three?"

"A mistake?"

"Yes, I fucked up," Brighton said, lifting her arms and letting them fall back down to her sides. "I panicked and fucked up, and I should've done every single thing differently on that day five years ago. I should've done a lot of things differently."

Charlotte flattened her mouth into a straight line. If she spoke, she'd scream, calling attention to them. But leaving your best friend—your fiancée, your everything—alone at the altar in a white suit, everyone watching, waiting, wondering, was not some simple mistake. It was not something to reflect on and wish for a do-over.

It was catastrophic.

A world-ender.

And Brighton was kidding herself if she thought it was anything different.

Brighton stepped closer, her dark eyes a little shiny. "But I was right."

Charlotte scoffed. "You were right ?"

"I handled it badly. Really, really badly. But we should not have been getting married that day, Lola, and you know it. You just didn't want to see it. You didn't want to see me ."

Charlotte's mouth fell open. She knew she should let it go, but defensiveness swelled. The absolute fucking nerve of this woman. "How in the hell did I not—"

"How are the lovebirds doing?" Jenny appeared next to them, slapping them both on their backs so hard they lurched forward a bit.

"Not compatible, I'm afraid," Brighton said calmly, her eyes never leaving Charlotte's. Then she turned and walked off toward the refreshments table and grabbed a foam cup of hot chocolate before joining Adele and Elle in conversation without another glance in Charlotte's direction.

The rest of the morning was nothing short of torture. Charlotte could barely stomach the too-sweet hot chocolate, no doubt made from a packet of powder and water, and Brighton didn't look her way again.

She didn't sneak a glance.

Didn't so much as get within twenty feet of Charlotte as those in the group milled around the fire and chatted about their interests and jobs and just how drunk their uncles would get at the traditional Christmas Eve dinner.

Charlotte should feel relieved.

She should not be sitting on a rough-hewn log around the firepit right now, feeling even more aware of Brighton than she had an hour ago, sneaking her own glances every ten seconds, and using peripheral vision to track her. This was what she'd wanted, after all—for Brighton to leave her alone, to become nothing more than a stranger in a crowd.

So why Charlotte couldn't seem to focus on anything but Brighton's exact location, she wasn't sure.

You just didn't want to see it. You didn't want to see me.

"Fucking ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous?" Sloane asked, sitting down on the log next to Charlotte.

"Did I say that out loud?" Charlotte asked.

Sloane nodded.

Charlotte just shook her head, then lifted her foam cup. "Just…this hot chocolate."

Sloane laughed. "I mean, it's bad, but I'm not sure if fucking ridiculous is quite accurate."

Charlotte let herself laugh too, took a few seconds to breathe through the tightness in her chest.

"What happened with Brighton?" Sloane asked. "Didn't hit it off?"

Charlotte snorted. "You could say that."

"Why not? I was starting to wonder if all that tension last night at dinner was purely sexual."

Charlotte nearly choked on her sugar water. "No. Absolutely not. She's…she's just not my type, I guess."

Sloane hummed. "Still, she's lovely."

Charlotte snapped her gaze to Sloane, who was watching Brighton—now sitting on the back porch, talking to a woman with short dark hair and wearing Docs—with curiosity. Something foreign and unwelcome rose up in Charlotte's chest, closing tight fingers around her throat. Suddenly, flashes of Sloane and Brighton together played in high definition behind her eyelids.

Another ridiculous thing.

She should want Brighton with someone else right now. It would get her out of Charlotte's hair for the rest of this trip, and it wasn't like Sloane was looking for anything serious anyway. She never was. In all the time Charlotte had known Sloane, she'd never gone beyond a few dates, mostly for the sex. Her words, not Charlotte's. It'd be the perfect distraction for all of them.

You should go for it formed on Charlotte's tongue, but she couldn't quite get the phrase out of her mouth.

"Did you know she was in the Katies?" Sloane asked.

Charlotte blinked as Sloane's words jumbled into her head, then slowly snapped into the right order. "Wait, what?"

"Founded the band or something like that. Years ago."

Charlotte didn't particularly like the Katies, but she'd certainly heard of them. Elle loved them, had even arranged a string piece of their hit song, "Cherry Lipstick," for the quartet that they had performed at live shows as a crowd-pleaser.

And a crowd-pleaser it was, especially with Elle's pop-driven style combined with the fluidity of their strings. Even Charlotte enjoyed playing the song, the quick slash of her bow during the chorus.

Still, the Katies' percussion-driven style wasn't her favorite for daily listening.

And they didn't sound anything like Brighton Fairbrook. Charlotte would certainly have noticed. She and Brighton had spent years playing together, watching each other perform at concerts and recitals—Brighton's melancholic folk style and Charlotte's elegance and knack for arranging and interpretation. The Katies were nothing like that. They were the bright summer sun to Brighton's cloudy autumn sky.

"So what happened?" Charlotte asked.

Sloane blew out a breath, leaned closer. "Well, apparently, according to Adele, the other two members kicked her out to make room for a new lead singer. Then, like, they went viral right after that. Totally blew up."

"My god," Charlotte said, her gaze instinctively going to Brighton on the back porch.

"I know, right? Worst luck in the world. Adele said she hasn't touched her guitar since it all went down back in March. I wonder if she's actually any good."

"She's good," Charlotte said, a defensive instinct.

Sloane frowned. "How do you know?"

Charlotte swallowed, looked down at the swill in her cup. "Just a guess. She's got…I don't know, a vibe."

"A vibe ?" Sloane laughed. "Charlotte Donovan is talking about vibes . You sure you two didn't hit it off?"

Charlotte's mouth parted, her breath catching in her throat. She watched Brighton laugh at something, tuck her hair behind her ear. She couldn't imagine Brighton Fairbrook without her guitar, without that notebook with the cartoon cats on the cover she used to scribble in all the time, forgoing homework and meals, showing up late to appointments or outings she and Charlotte had planned because she'd gotten lost in some song she was writing. She couldn't imagine Brighton Fairbrook ever giving up her dream.

But she didn't really know Brighton Fairbrook anymore, did she?

"Like I said, she's not my type." Charlotte cleared her throat, tipped a bit more lukewarm chocolate sugar into her mouth.

Sloane narrowed her eyes. "What is your type?"

Charlotte ignored the question, forced her eyes in front of her—she definitely did not look at the long-haired bohemian in the red plaid coat.

"Ah," Sloane said. "I see."

"See what?"

Sloane lifted her cup toward someone across the fire, someone Charlotte's eyes had apparently landed on when she was trying very pointedly not to look at Brighton.

Wes Reynolds.

He was talking with someone Charlotte hadn't yet met, a woman with long blond hair and heeled boots.

"Oh, no, I—" Charlotte started to say but then froze.

Wes was a nice guy. Sloane had dated him for years in high school, so he had to be. It wouldn't hurt to spend a little time with him, would it? She had absolutely zero interest in anything romantic or sexual happening, but conversation and some pottery-making or whatever fresh hell was in store for them at the next event—that would keep her distracted, at least.

Keep her safe from Brighton's unwelcome and fundamentally wrong opinions about their relationship's implosion.

"He is…cute," Charlotte heard herself say.

Sloane laughed. "He is."

"You're okay if I talk to him more?" Charlotte asked.

Sloane's smile dipped but was back in place so fast—and so genuinely—that Charlotte didn't have time to ponder it.

"Yeah," Sloane said, rubbing her hands on her jeans. "Absolutely. Wes!" Her abrupt call echoed across the fire, and Wes immediately turned toward her, his mouth open in midsentence. Sloane waved her hand. "Come over here."

He said something to the blond woman, then rose, circling around the firepit until he was standing in front of Charlotte and Sloane. "What's up?"

"Here, take my seat," Sloane said, standing. "Charlotte wants to know more about your restaurant."

"I do?" Charlotte said, then mentally slapped herself. "I do."

Wes laughed. "Happy to talk about it."

"Great," Sloane said. "Catch you both later." And before Wes even fully sat down, she was already halfway across the pit, taking his spot next to the blond and immediately launching into some conversation that had the woman laughing.

"How does she do that?" Charlotte asked.

Wes stretched out his long legs, clad in slim dark jeans, a bottle of water between his gloved hands. "Do what?"

"Just…talk. To everyone."

He laughed. "That's Sloane. Always has been."

Charlotte tilted her head at him. "Really?"

He nodded. "Did she ever tell you how we got together in high school?"

Charlotte shook her head, completely sure Sloane had never even mentioned Wes Reynolds before this trip. Not that she'd say that to Wes.

"I joined the orchestra fall semester of our junior year," he said. "Had never touched a stringed instrument in my life."

"Oh my god."

"Yeah. Our teacher, Dr. Stone, wasn't amused, but our school had a policy that students could try any elective they wanted. It was just the basic orchestra class, not the advanced one Sloane was in, but"—here he held up a finger and grinned—"Sloane was so damn good that Dr. Stone convinced the administration to let her TA for the beginner's class."

Charlotte felt a slow smile spread over her mouth. "You took the class because of Sloane."

He laughed, spread his hands out in front of him. "She helped everyone, constantly talking them through what they were doing right, doing wrong, how they could improve. Made her a good teacher. I was a horrible student, but she decided I was pretty cute, I guess. Finally agreed to a date in October if I promised to drop orchestra after the semester and stop torturing everyone with my scales."

"How long?" Charlotte asked.

"How long what?"

"How long had you been in love with Sloane before you signed up for the class?"

He laughed, a lovely booming sound. "Oh, I've been in love with Sloane Berry for forever." His eyes found her across the firepit, a soft smile still on his face.

"Forever?" Charlotte said, a teasing lilt to her voice as the puzzle pieces of Sloane and Wes fell into place, along with a possible reason why Sloane had never mentioned him.

Just like Charlotte had never mentioned Brighton.

She shook her head, dispelling that preposterous thought as Wes's smile vanished. He looked at her, squirming on his log.

"I mean…when we were kids," he said.

"Right," Charlotte said, lifting her brows at him.

He ran a hand over his short hair but said nothing.

"Forever?" she said again.

He sighed. "Shit, I'm really bad at this."

Charlotte laughed. "You're in good company, trust me."

"Look, I'd rather not be…you know." He waved a hand toward Sloane, his meaning clear. "If that counts for anything. My mom signed me up for Two Turtledoves—she does every year, and I do it as a kind of Christmas present to her, go on a date or two that are usually excruciating—but Sloane's never been here. She…well, it's hard to concentrate on other people when I'm around her."

"Makes sense," Charlotte said softly. She would not look at Brighton, she fucking would not .

"Pathetic, huh?" he said.

"Not at all," she said, smiling at him.

"What about you?" he asked, taking a sip of his water. "No sparks after your daring rescue? What's her name? Brighton?"

Charlotte pressed her lips together, an instinct, keeping it all inside, but suddenly, her whole history with Brighton felt impossibly heavy, weighing down her limbs, her bones, even her blood. She looked at Wes, his expression open. He was easy to talk to—he was sweet and genuine and just kind . Not that others in her life weren't, but he didn't know her, and she didn't know him, and they'd likely never see each other again after Two Turtledoves was over. There was a sort of safety in that.

She didn't think too hard about it—knew she'd talk herself out of it if she did. She just let herself say what she wanted, what she needed to say to someone.

"It's hard to reignite sparks between two people when one of them left the other at the altar five years ago," she said quietly.

The confession landed like a single snowflake in the wind—fluttering and delicate before settling peacefully on the ground. Charlotte exhaled, felt her facial muscles relax. All her muscles, really.

"Holy shit," Wes said softly.

"Yeah," Charlotte said.

"And you, wait…"

"Haven't seen her since. Not until we both showed up with a Berry sister for a Cheery, Queery Christmas."

Wes let out a shocked laugh, then slapped his hand over his mouth. "Shit, I'm sorry," he said through his fingers.

"Don't be," Charlotte said, then let herself laugh a little too. It was fucking funny when she really thought about it. The pure cosmic twist of it all. Then, suddenly, her gentle laugh turned into a longer one—louder, harder—and soon she and Wes were rightly guffawing, bent over on their logs, their shoulders pressed together, tears running down Charlotte's cheeks in the cold. At one point, she wasn't sure if she was laughing or crying.

Probably a little bit of both.

Charlotte noticed Sloane smiling at them, a question on her brow—in fact, everyone was looking their way, including Brighton, though Charlotte didn't even care at that moment. It just felt so damn good to let it all out.

"Do we have another match at Two Turtledoves?" Jenny yelled over the crowd. Charlotte ignored her and was relieved when Wes did too.

"No one knows about it," Charlotte said when they'd recovered. She wiped her eyes with the tiny napkin that once held her doughnut, printed fir trees dotting the rough paper.

"Wait, no one?" Wes said. "Not even Sloane?"

Charlotte shook her head. "She doesn't even know I had a fiancée, much less that she's sleeping down the hall. From the way Adele has acted so far, I don't think she knows either." She looked Wes in the eyes, said softly, "I'd like to keep it that way."

Wes frowned, then was quiet for a bit, staring out in front of him. Finally, he blew out a long breath. "My first instinct is that you should tell someone."

"I just did," she said.

He smiled at her. "Fair. But someone who loves you."

"Okay, now I'm offended."

He laughed, shook his head. "I'm serious."

She fiddled with her napkin, tracing the tiny green trees over and over. "It's not that easy."

"Yeah, I know that too. My best friend, Dorian? No clue I'm still ass over heels for Sloane. And he's my business partner at the restaurant. I see him more often than I see my own shadow."

Charlotte peered up at him and smiled. "Ah, so you're a hypocrite."

He presented his palms in surrender. "Hey, I said my first instinct was that you should tell someone. I didn't say it was my last."

"Fair enough."

They went silent for a bit after that, but it was a nice silence. Friendly, easy. Charlotte was shocked by how much lighter she felt, though there was still an entire holiday to get through, and she wasn't sure how many more of these Two Turtledoves events she could handle emotionally. She'd be spilling all her secrets to Jenny next time.

"So what do we do now?" Wes asked.

Charlotte exhaled. "Well, you're officially my Secret Keeper."

"And you're mine."

"I say we stick together." She turned to look at him. "What do you say? Partners?"

His mouth dropped open. "Why, Charlotte…" He trailed off, his brows pushing together.

"Donovan," she said.

"Charlotte Donovan, are you asking me to be your fake Turtledove?"

"It's not fake," she said, laughing too. "Look, neither of us is looking to actually date someone here, right?"

He shook his head, then pointed to a white guy with a red beard standing by the doughnuts. "I've known that dude since preschool. Jameson. He ate glue. And crayons, now that I think about it."

Charlotte grinned. "So we hang out during these events. We…look out for each other. You can tell your mother and Dorian and whoever else that you met a mesmerizing violinist named Charlotte—"

"My, we are confident."

"—and you can help me keep my distance from Brighton. We don't even have to use the word dating . We just let our proximity speak for itself."

He pursed his mouth in thought. "And we both stay safe from Jenny's mating calls."

"Is she going to be at other events?"

"Oh, she comes to every single one. Loves matching up all the sad and lonely queers in town."

Charlotte winced. "All the more reason."

He paused again, his gaze going to where Sloane was now standing with Manish and Brighton. Charlotte felt everything that had gone loose inside her in the past half hour tighten up again. But no…Brighton wouldn't tell anyone about them. The truth only made her look like an asshole.

Still, Charlotte had the sudden urge to hold Wes's hand, just for some human connection, something alive and warm other than her own frantic heartbeat.

"Please," she said, her voice bordering on begging. She cleared her throat. "I promise not to fall in love with you."

He scoffed. "That's what everyone in a romantic comedy says before they promptly fall in love."

"Yeah, but I actually mean it," Charlotte said. "I don't even think I can…" She trailed off, her gaze drifting and landing on Brighton without her even realizing it. She yanked her attention back to Wes, smiled broadly. He was looking at her with narrowed eyes, an expression that called bullshit.

"And we both know you won't fall in love with me," she said.

He sighed dramatically. "As much as I might want to…probably not."

She nudged his shoulder with hers. "So?"

"So. You've got a deal, partner."

She held out her gloved hand, and he took it, kissing her knuckles softly, winking as he did so.

"Oh, you are good," she said.

He grinned. "Was there ever any doubt?"