Chapter 23
T he sky was cotton-candy pink, the kind of warm, drunk color that made you believe in possibilities. Or maybe it was the tequila. Or maybe it was both.
I was back from Paris for the summer. Not back for good , not yet—I still had a semester to finish, and I was pretending not to dread going back.
It was easier to focus on the here and now—bare feet in the sand, the sticky salt breeze on my skin, the hum of the Winslow beach house buzzing with too many bodies and not enough air conditioning.
The “kids,” as my mom still called us, had all migrated to the back deck for drinks before going out.
Jack was twenty-eight, establishing his career at home in Charlottesville in some fancy financial job I couldn’t begin to explain—and well on his way to buying throw pillows without irony.
Fitz was a hot shot at his law firm in DC and ever the emotional fortress, though he was somehow even hotter than the last time I’d seen him.
I hadn’t expected him to be here. I thought he’d be too busy working his way up to partner or buried doing.
..whatever high-level real estate law people did.
But he’d shown up two nights ago with his designer luggage and a bottle of really nice bourbon and no girlfriend in tow, surprisingly.
The last I’d seen on Instagram, he’d spent the year dating a willowy blonde woman who curated shoots for Architectural Digest. She looked like a shoe-in for Mrs. Fitzgerald Whitmore III.
Jack was the first to call it out—loudly, with bourbon in his hand and the kind of grin he only pulled when he was up to something.
“All right,” he said, spinning to face Fitz and me like a game show host. “Since we’ve got America’s most eligible bachelor since JFK was single, we’re going out—on the prowl.
Tonight’s mission: help Charlie find a rebound and help Fitz find his future wife.
Or, worst case, someone who looks great in heels and won’t ghost you from a yacht. ”
Fitz didn’t even blink. Just raised his glass, unbothered. “She didn’t ghost me. She left with full disclosure.”
Jack grinned, like he got a little glee in knocking Fitz down a peg to mortal status. “She told you she wanted a summer of yacht parties and maybe the universe would reunite you later if it was meant to be.”
“Exactly.”
“And you said?”
“I said, ‘Bon voyage.’” He sipped his drink. “I had no interest in boarding that ship.”
I tried not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway. A small, involuntary snort. Fitz glanced at me, one eyebrow lifted.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just...you sounded like someone’s rich aunt who got dumped at a wedding.”
He stared at me. “You say that like it’s an insult.”
Jack cackled. “See? They’re both single and full of feelings. This is going to be a great night.”
“Oh, I’m not full of feelings,” I said. “I’m full of freedom. And Patrón.”
“Right,” Jack said, sliding onto the bench beside me. “What happened to the French guy? Lucas? Louis?”
“Luc,” I said, rolling my eyes. “We ended things before I came home.”
“Why? I thought he was teaching you how to make love and soufflés and say rude things in French.”
I smirked. “He was. But he wasn’t worth a long-distance summer. He liked being adored too much, and I don’t feel like taking care of his fragile ego via text all summer.”
Jack groaned. “God, you’re such a French girl now. All ‘Love is fleeting, admiration is a game, all men are disposable.’”
“I didn’t say all men were disposable,” I said, stealing a sip of his drink. “Just the ones who can’t make me come.”
Fitz choked on his bourbon. Jack laughed so hard he nearly spilled his glass. “Jesus Christ, sis. I know I’m championing your next summer fling but I don’t need to know all the gory details.”
“Sorry,” I said sweetly, not sorry at all.
Fitz’s eyes met mine across the rim of his glass, and for a split second, the air felt charged. Just the first flick of static before a storm. I looked away and Jack, mercifully, was too focused on his matchmaking scheme to notice.
“I’m serious,” he said, motioning between us like we were chess pieces.
“Charlie, you’re home, single, looking outrageously beautiful.
Fitz is newly liberated, tragically heterosexual, and clearly in need of a distraction.
I’ve met this amazing girl named Jazz—she’s smart, sumptuous, full of fun, and she actually listens when I talk about work—so if things go well, I’m officially out of the game.
That means I have to live vicariously through your romantic mayhem. ”
“Great,” I muttered. “Thanks for the pressure.”
“Don’t worry,” Fitz said. “I’m not planning on falling in love tonight.”
“Me either,” I replied. “But I’m open to someone who knows how to use their hands.”
His mouth twitched. “You’ve got a thing for dexterity, huh?”
“Oh, definitely. Anyone can talk a big game. I want proof.”
Jack groaned again. “Jesus. Okay, tonight , we’re aiming for a little mystery, a little magic, and maybe a man who isn’t terrified of you.”
“I don’t know who could possibly be terrified of the cupcake,” Fitz said with a smirk. “It sounds like a tequila soda and a couple fingers is all she needs.”
He set his empty glass down with nonchalance, as if he hadn’t just casually alluded to a sexual act and me in the same sentence.
But maybe he and my brother were now just treating me like one of the bros.
Perhaps it was a step up from being Charlie baby who couldn’t hang with the big kids—but I didn’t want to be seen by him as a bro.
I wanted those couple of fingers to be his .
Jack clapped his hands. “Okay, let’s go. I’ve got a good feeling about tonight.”
I didn’t—but I would go out with the guys, play nice, and shove down feelings that I sure as fuck wished would stay buried for good.
T he bar was called Low Tide—equal parts beachy dive and vacation trap, perched right at the edge of the water with string lights overhead and a dance floor made of sand.
The ceiling fans didn’t really work and the drink menu hadn’t changed since 2003, but it was packed, noisy, and full of sunburned summer people trying to forget their real lives for a night. In other words, it was perfect.
Jack was in rare form. Full wingman mode.
He was wearing a linen shirt unbuttoned one too many, sunglasses still perched on his head at nine-thirty at night like he was doing a bad Leo DiCaprio impression.
He was buying drinks for strangers, telling everyone he was celebrating “love, heartbreak, and the divine chaos of summer.”
I was sipping something frozen and fruity, watching Fitz lean against the bar like he hadn’t already broken several hearts just by standing there.
He wore a plain white collared shirt that was just tight enough across his chest to make me need a minute.
His curls were still damp from his evening shower, his jaw unshaven, his eyes on everything but me.
Jack had already collected a crew—six people, maybe seven.
Vacationers, mostly. It was a mix of guys and girls, all in their twenties, all tanned and buzzed and happy to be pulled into the Winslow hurricane.
One couple was clearly together, but the rest were just single minglers at the right place and time.
Jack clapped his hands, all charm and chaos. “All right,” he announced. “New game. Classic. Dangerous. Potentially life-altering. Who’s ready to spin the bottle?” There was a collective whoop from the group, half genuine, half ironic.
He pointed at the girl who was clearly spoken for—pretty, blonde, with a tiny little anchor tattoo on her shoulder. “You’re in, too, sweetheart. Don’t worry, if the bottle lands on you, whoever gets you will just do a handshake and a nice little peck on the cheek. Real wholesome.”
The boyfriend who stood behind her grinned and raised his beer. “Fair enough.”
Fitz, standing just behind me, gave a tiny, reluctant sigh.
“Oh come on, Whitmore,” Jack said, already grabbing an empty wine bottle from a table. “Live a little. It’s summer. You’re single. You’re hot. Let the bottle be your guide.”
Fitz didn’t answer. He just sat down in the circle as the rest of us dropped onto beach towels or beach chairs pulled in from the patio.
I sat across from him. The sand was warm under my thighs, my drink was still sweet on my tongue, and my pulse had started to pick up because this was exactly the kind of reckless nonsense I was ready for.
Someone spun first. A guy kissed a girl. A girl kissed another girl and made a joke about cherry chapstick. Laughter rolled around the circle like surf.
Then Fitz spun. The bottle landed on a girl named Claire, I think. She was pretty—a little younger than me, with a loose tank top on that fell low to reveal plump breasts, a golden tan, and wavy hair she clearly didn’t fight in the humidity.
He leaned across the circle. Close-mouthed. Polite. A peck with precision and zero follow-up.
Jack groaned, loudly. “ That’s what we’re bringing to the table? Come on, man. You kiss like you’re running for office.”
Fitz shrugged, quick and unapologetic. “Wasn’t my idea.”
Claire laughed, and to her credit, she didn’t seem offended. Just tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled as she reached for the bottle. She spun. And damned if it didn’t land on Fitz. “Ohhhh,” someone said. “Second time’s the charm!”
I watched as Fitz exhaled slowly. Then lifted his hand. With one finger, he curled it toward her. Beckoned.
My mouth went dry.
Claire blinked, eyes widening just a little, but then she laughed and swayed toward him. When she reached him, Fitz leaned back against the arm of the Adirondack chair he was sitting in and patted his thigh once. The directive was clear.
She straddled his lap, slow and deliberate, knees on either side of him. Her thighs were smooth and golden, and I hated them instantly.