Chapter Eleven When in Doubt, Dance It Out
Chapter Eleven
When in Doubt, Dance It Out
The Hamptons, New York
Hart asked me to come to the Hamptons with him the following week, and without even pretending to think it over, I readily agreed. We’d had such a good time in Napa, and I wanted to see him again.
Plus it’s his birthday—his twenty-sixth—and he’s throwing himself a big birthday bash at his family’s beach house.
The idea of meeting his friends almost gave me a mini freak-out.
What would they think? What would they say?
I wondered if I’d have anything to talk about with them.
But even that wasn’t enough to keep me away.
Maybe I was being delusional, but days later, I boarded a flight to New York’s LaGuardia and then slipped into a limo he’d arranged to the Hamptons with an overnight bag in tow.
Hart promised a relaxed affair— low key and chill were his exact words.
Given his family’s status, I might have expected the home to be situated on the trendy Southampton or Bridgehampton—maybe even on coveted Gin Lane, where the ultrawealthy came to vacation each year.
Instead, their address was East Hampton, but even that made sense; the home had been in the family for generations, long before this area was an enviable holiday hotspot. Old money , I think is the term.
My first impression is that the house is not a house.
No surprise there. It’s a stately shingle-style estate hidden behind tall boxwood hedges and would qualify as a mansion in anyone’s playbook.
The circular drive in front is lined with all the usual suspects.
Range Rover. Lexus. Mercedes. Rolls-Royce.
After my transcontinental flight, I appreciate the luxury of the limo service. My driver lets me out, and I’m suddenly self-conscious about the dress code. I opted for jeans, a casual black top, and small gold hoop earrings.
I’m greeted at the oversize front doors by an attendant who lets me inside and offers to take my coat.
Okay, so there’s a full staff. Very low key and chill indeed.
I head inside toward the sound of voices. Feminine laughter and the sound of twentysomething guys being loud and rowdy. Into the lion’s den ...
The living room is a very elegant space, and it’s there I find small groups clustered together, chatting, laughing.
My second impression—everyone here is so young.
My stomach drops.
I obviously don’t fit in, but Hart seems oblivious to this. Because as soon as he spots me, he comes striding over with a dimpled smile.
He tugs me into a nearby alcove and presses a kiss to my lips. “You made it.”
“Happy birthday,” I say while my heart pounds. He looks gorgeous, wearing jeans with a simple black T-shirt.
“Come on. There’s some people I want you to meet.”
Clinking the side of his glass to get the attention of the room, Hart clears his throat.
The conversations around us quiet, and suddenly I feel all kinds of self-conscious as the assessing eyes of a dozen or so people wonder who I am and what I’m doing standing at his side.
Maybe they think I’m the party planner or the hired help.
Hart takes my hand, lacing his fingers in mine, quickly dispelling whatever theories they were busy developing.
“Thank you all for coming. For being here to celebrate me. It means a lot.” He looks shy, almost boyish. It’s adorable.
“Happy birthday, Fitzy!” someone calls from the back of the crowd.
“Make yourselves at home, and as always, have fun, but not too much fun.”
After several raucous cheers and shouts of happy birthday , the murmured conversations start up again, but before I can determine if I’m the topic of conversation, Hart tugs me over to meet a group of his friends.
“Everyone, this is Alessia Moore. She runs a foundation in Kenya, and she’s here to visit this weekend.” His eyes cut to mine. “And she’s just really cool.”
It’s simple, not overly telling, and doesn’t really hint as to our status. But that’s okay with me. I’ve only just arrived, and if I’m going to get laughed out of here, I’d prefer to have a drink first. Ideally something strong. Plus our status doesn’t exactly have a clear definition.
Hart points to a guy with dark hair and stylish glasses standing across from us. “This is Montgomery Aldrich. Genius-level IQ. He’s developing an app that will probably freaking cure cancer.”
“Monty,” his friend says, lifting his beer.
“Nice to meet you.” I nod.
“Whittaker—a.k.a. Whit—the brooding introvert. You two could probably talk literature for hours.” Whit offers me a shy smile.
Next Hart points to a tall, lanky guy with exceptionally white teeth who’s dressed very well in tailored Givenchy. “Isaac Peddelton—the playboy.”
“Charmed,” Isaac says, taking my hand.
“Vaughn Rothschild. Whip smart and voted most likely to bring the bail money.” Hart points to a delicate-looking girl with blond shoulder-length hair standing a few steps away.
Of the Rothschild family? The subtle tilt of Hart’s head seems to answer my unspoken question. Jeez, these people are an entirely different breed.
“Hello,” I say, giving her a small wave.
And on and on it goes, Hart introducing me to the people who are important to him.
“And you know Hayes.” The venom in his voice indicates the descriptor he’d like to add but doesn’t— my asshole cousin.
Hart gets into a conversation with Monty about some coding problem Monty’s run into with his app when Vaughn comes to my rescue.
“You look like you could use a drink.” She smiles.
“Am I that obvious?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Not at all. Just girl code. Come on.”
Oh, girl code —like I’m twenty-two again. Cool.
I follow Vaughn to the kitchen, even though there’s a bar staffed with two bartenders here in the living room.
“Drink of choice?” she asks, gesturing to the counter.
They have everything. Unlike the cheap wine my friends and I used to drink at parties, bottles of top-shelf liquor and expensive wine litter the surface.
“Maybe a glass of bubbles.”
She nods, then exits the kitchen to fetch a champagne flute from the row of glass cabinets in the butler’s pantry.
Hayes appears in the doorway, watching me. His expression is guarded. Intense.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove by engaging in this little experiment, but I’m onto you.” His tone is icy and filled with venom.
“Excuse me?”
He doesn’t have to say the words out loud; everything he’s not said is clear as day. He doesn’t approve of me with Hart.
Vaughn appears from around the corner. “I think I’ll join you, actually,” she says, carrying two champagne flutes.
Hayes disappears as quickly as he appeared, and Vaughn is none the wiser. I’m rattled, but I won’t be intimidated by a spoiled rich boy like Hayes.
While Vaughn wrestles the cork from a bottle of prosecco, I glance around the immaculate kitchen.
Sleek wooden cabinets. Polished marble floors.
A Viking ten-burner range, Sub-Zero refrigerator.
It almost doesn’t seem like this could be real.
Is this really Hart’s life? He’s so grounded and shockingly normal.
I wonder how often his family uses this home.
To think a place this lovely sits empty most of the year is a shame.
Vaughn takes her time filling the flutes, letting the bubbles settle before adding more.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the glass.
“Come on. I’ll show you the view.” She tips her chin, and I follow her out a back door onto a flagstone patio.
Carrying our prosecco, we navigate across the lawn, past the sleek sunken pool, and down the steps toward the water’s edge.
The waves crashing against the shoreline create an idyllic, entrancing sound.
The sun has already set, but the moon casts everything in a brilliant glow.
We take a seat on a set of chairs that have been strategically placed to appreciate the view.
“So.” She smiles at me.
“So.” I hesitate, looking out at the water. Its resounding power reminds me how very small we are. Or maybe it’s just me feeling out of place. “It’s beautiful here.”
She nods. “We summer here every year. Have you ever been?”
The use of summer as a verb. How charming. “It’s my first time. I’ve been to Nantucket, though, which is similar.”
She nods.
I’m curious about this girl, Vaughn. She’s very pretty in an understated sort of way.
Chic shoulder-length haircut, slender build, a full mouth.
Did she ever date Hart? Maybe shared a drunken kiss at a party?
Or is she really just a friend? But I’m too old to play the jealousy game, or at least that’s what I tell myself.
“How do you know Hart?” I ask.
She smiles, a wistful smile, and gazes out over the sea. “We met at thirteen. Our parents were friends. We used to sneak glasses of champagne at their parties and let our parents think it was ginger ale.”
“Are your parents still friends?”
She shakes her head. “They had a bit of a falling-out, but thankfully our friendship remained.”
I nod.
“I don’t know if it’s my place to say this.” She hesitates.
I take a large gulp of my prosecco, eyes on the ocean.
“But Hart has a rocky dating history. He was cheated on by his last girlfriend.”
“Sophia?” I ask.
She scrunches her nose. “No. Sophia was no one important. Her name is Mia. She broke his heart. And I don’t know what this is between you two, but ... just be careful with him, okay?”
I don’t know what this is between us either—but maybe that’s why Hart proposed this whole thing to begin with. He wasn’t in the right place to pursue anything normal or healthy for him. Maybe I felt like a safe space—someone who wouldn’t break his heart. It makes sense, but it also stings.
“How long ago was this?”
“A while. More than six months. But she did a number on him. He deserves some fun after that. He really is one of the good ones.”