Chapter 2
“So what’s the plan?” Beau asks, glancing at me from the driver’s seat.
Outside my car window, our street is bathed in the glow of sunset. As we cross the bridge over our private drive, the lake catches the last of the light and throws molten gold across the carefully manicured lawns that knit Winter Park’s ten square miles together.
I can’t. That would make it a Thing. And these days, I only deal with Things that stem from the little projects I pick up for sport. TPing Carol’s house to cheer Polly up is a controlled burn. California is a five-alarm fire.
Still, Beau’s question has me retreating into my thoughts.
What is the plan? Coming to Florida and covering up past problems with money and fun was the original plan. Is it time for a new one?
“Este?” he says, his brow pulled into a concerned frown. “How are we going to get Marcus and Nora together?”
Right. That plan.
He’s giving me an opening, the same way he always does when I’m holding something back.
Normally, I’d be filling the car ride to Marcus’s restaurant with ridiculous proposals, like locking him and Nora in his wine cellar or rearranging the seating chart so they’re trapped together all night.
But the 310 number is still lodged in my ribs, sharp and insistent.
I googled the number, but it’s unlisted.
Whoever’s trying to reach me wants to keep their information private.
I have one guess.
“Sorry.” I shake my head and try to clear the dread creeping up my back. “I was thinking you propose a game, Suck and Blow.” It’s a weak suggestion. Barely funny. “It works on all those Netflix reality dating shows. And that one time on Clueless.”
Beau gives me a half laugh, the kind that’s more about his love for me than about the joke. His hand slides over to my knee, warm and solid, and for a second I let myself believe he can steady me with touch alone.
I close my eyes for the rest of the short drive and try not to let the humidity in the air compound my anxiety. Humidity might be the most reliable thing about this place. Even at night. Especially in August. The sticky heat crowds every space.
By the time we turn onto Park Avenue, home to Lemon then he reaches into his pocket and offers me his weed pen. “Want some?”
A snort slips out of my mouth. “Who’s the reprobate now?” I shake my head at the proffered THC. “If I had told you six years ago that your idea of a good time would be getting high with me, what would you have said?”
“I’d have said I must have done something right.”
“You don’t miss being a shark?”
His head pulls back, slow and cool. “Who says I’m not a shark.” One side of his mouth curls upward. “Sharks can retire.”
“That’s not how sharks work, actually.” I raise a finger. “They have to keep swimming, or they’ll die. They’re a keystone species, Beau.”
“Is that why you’re always chasing some freelance mischief or another? Because you’re a shark, too?”
He means it as a compliment. He doesn’t know I’m still reeling from the resurgence of my past life. “I wanted to be a shark, but I was harpooned,” I mutter.
He pulls me close, holding me against his chest to soothe the sting, and I can hear his breath rise in his chest as he says, “We don’t have time to debate marine biology. We’re needed inside.”
I stick my tongue out, and he laughs.
“You’re my favorite view. Every time.” He presses a kiss to my cheek, and warmth spreads through me.
Swoon.
His arms around me are the shield I’m going to need as I brace myself for what I know will be waiting inside.
After we tracked down Will’s killer last year, we learned that Fritz and Gianna Hall getting tossed in jail for their crimes created a kind of power vacuum that demanded to be filled.
Somehow being at the center of the scandal meant Nora, Beau, and I were catapulted to the top of the social food chain.
Nora and I used to be on the fringes, but now, we’re…beloved. People want to talk to us, invite us places, share their life updates. Which might be enjoyable, except that too many of the social interactions that go on around here are performative.
Everything’s so polished and curated, like we live behind some kind of TikTok filter.
People take notice when we walk into almost any room.
Which is why my pace slows when we step through the front door of Marcus’s restaurant.
I spot Carol Parker and her husband, Art, and I can almost hear his arthritic joints cracking as he offers his elbow to Carol.
She smiles, clutching her glass of chardonnay.
Beau flashes a conspiratorial grin. “Want me to call her over?”
Not feeling up for a fight with the call from California still buzzing under my skin, I force a shrug. “And ruin the element of surprise? Why would you do that? Let her find me. If she knows, she’ll still be mad an hour from now.”
“At least she’s consistent. And isn’t it nice to know there are some things in life you can count on?” He jerks his chin in the direction of the party.
“I’m going to go say hi to Marcus before she notices me,” I whisper to Beau, slipping behind a crowd before he can stop me. I’ve stuffed my California phobias into a neat little box, yes. But I need another minute to get my bearings.
An hour ago, I would have paid money to see Carol learn I was the one who pranked her yard.
Not that I wanted a fight—just a puff of smoke.
That perfect moment when you pour vinegar on baking soda and watch the whole thing froth over.
A sliver of proof that people here feel something—anything—more than a wistful lust for holiday tablescapes.
Now, though, the insulated protection of our glass-bottom boat feels compromised. Like something is threatening to crack the hull. As I skirt around the crowd toward the kitchen, I feel almost hunted, glancing behind me to make sure no one’s watching.
That’s insane. You’re being insane. It was just a phone call.
I find solace in the hallway. The buzz of the crowd dies away for a beat before I push through the swinging door and into the warm chaos of the back of the house.
The low hum of the kitchen hits me instantly—voices mingling with the clatter of dishes and the steady beeps of timers.
Bright overhead fluorescent light bounces off stainless steel countertops and commercial appliances.
The air is thick with the sizzle of searing meat, the sharp heat of open flames under gas burners, and the rich perfume of oil bubbling in the fryer.
“Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence.” Marcus smiles from the expo station—the narrow alley of the service area where plates are handed off to runners and side work gets done.
“Evening, Marcus.” I wave, already scanning the heat lamps.
“We made you a plate.” He tips his head toward a waiting dish under the far lamp. “Snapper, charred corn, and blistered tomatoes with a citrus beurre blanc.”
“Oh holy fuck, I love you.” I lunge for the plate and a fork. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
I was too busy thinking of how you and Nora belong together. But that seems a little less pressing all of a sudden.
I take a breath and then a bite. Then another. “Oh my God.” I point my fork at him. “This is stupid good. You guys are showing off tonight.”
“I’ll have Gemma bring you another plate in a little while,” Marcus promises.