Chapter Twelve
“I can’t believe we’re late,” Sloane huffed under her breath, her feet moving at a pace just below jogging. “I hate being late. Especially when people are expecting us for dinner. It’s rude.”
They had parked near the end of a long gravel-lined driveway leading up to the Stiles residence and were trying to beat the clock. But no matter how fast Sloane walked, she couldn’t make up for the twenty minutes they’d already lost.
“Anything under an hour is forgivable,” Kendall said, walking a few steps behind her, pulling a hunter-green sweater over her head. “Stop stressing.”
“I’m not stressing,” Sloane shot back. “I’m just annoyed that you misplaced my Jeep keys in your laptop bag. Who does that?”
“I’m sorry,” Kendall mumbled when her head finally popped out, her dark hair like a chaotic halo around her. “I must’ve done it in a daze after staring at the screen for hours. It’s like when you put your phone in the freezer.”
“That is not a normal thing people do, Kendall.” Sloane shot her a glare over her shoulder. It was cold enough that Kendall stopped in her tracks for a brief second, but not icy enough for the woman to retreat to the car. Honestly, Sloane could use a bit of distance from the firefighter.
After spending a morning together with the Stephenson family, then doing a few interviews—one of which had included chatting to Natasha regarding the Crestline Fire—and completing edits together in that small cabin made her feel trapped, like she had cabin fever.
“Are you seriously telling me you never accidentally put salt in your tea instead of sugar or put your panties on inside out?”
“No.”
“That’s a lie,” Kendall said as she caught up to her. “Or maybe you’re just not human.”
Sloane ignored the snarky comment and instead said, “Can you imagine if we arrive and they’ve already brought out those duck fat potatoes? If we miss those potatoes, I’ll never forgive you, Kendall.”
“No one eats before all the guests arrive,” Kendall said, not grasping the severity of Sloane’s need to be perfectly on time. Or early. But never late. “Besides, the sun’s still out and I have a feeling Natasha and Estelle are late-night people. I won’t be surprised if we only eat at midnight.”
Sloane slowed her pace when they reached the house and tried her best to ignore Kendall rambling on about working night shifts as a firefighter and her strange eating habits.
Except it was nearly impossible to ignore someone when they were standing so close you could hear them breathe.
And smell their shampoo. And feel the static bounce off their skin.
Dying to get away, Sloane jogged up the porch.
The house was one of those barn-style homes with gigantic windows that let a ton of light through, a wraparound porch, flowerpots brimming with geraniums, and lavender pushed up against the olive green wooden panels.
It was gorgeous.
“Is that a note?” Kendall said, stepping toward the front door where a piece of paper was stuck against the oak with a strip of tape. “It says to go around to the back.”
Kendall didn’t hesitate to take the lead as she rounded the house and hopped down a few more steps onto a narrow stone pathway.
Ahead stretched a massive lawn that was at least the size of a football field.
At one edge, rows of vines stretched on, and beside the vines, was a paddock housing four fluffy alpacas, blissfully munching on grass.
Meanwhile, a brood of chickens—about eight of them—scratched and pecked at the earth and Sloane wondered which one was Chuck Norris, so she could avoid him entirely.
Just a few feet away was the harvest table. A big, beautiful teak table draped in a white tablecloth with jars of wildflowers and glowing fairy lights strewn across the middle of it.
“Wow,” Kendall beamed, standing momentarily transfixed.
Sloane couldn’t help but be hypnotized herself.
It was a sanctuary. A peaceful oasis that felt a million miles away from the city.
The air was clearer. The grass greener. And somehow, Sloane felt a lightness she couldn’t explain.
It felt like she’d shed a hundred-pound backpack filled with deadlines and stress.
She could almost hear the universe whispering, Take a break.
Breathe fresh air. Or better yet, move here, now, please.
“Look who finally decided to join us! I was starting to think you didn’t want to see my face again,” Natasha exclaimed, standing up and raising a glass of wine in their direction.
“We’re so glad you two could make it,” Estelle added, her smile wide and lovely. She flapped her arms wildly in the air as if herding them to the table.
“We’re so sorry we’re late,” Sloane said first, walking ahead of Kendall.
She was secretly hoping they’d have designated seats on opposite ends of the table.
“We got lost in the editing. It’s always so time-consuming.
” She lived by the principle of never blaming anyone else unless absolutely necessary.
“No problem at all. Sit.” Estelle showed them to their spots.
Two chairs right next to each other.
Apart from the hosts, there were three other women.
Gloria, who was Estelle’s sister-in-law, was an ex-defense attorney in LA who settled in Crestline and bought the local art gallery.
She was short, squat, and nothing like her sister-n-law.
But after first greetings, it had become apparent to Sloane that Gloria was, in fact, the life of the party.
She was blunt, loud, and laughed like a hyena.
Then there was Betty, a friend of Estelle’s from college. She had the same style in clothes as the bohemian queen, but she couldn’t pull it off as effortlessly. And last, Rebecca, who spoke so softly, Sloane had to strain to hear.
A table full of queer women.
“So, how long have the two of you been dating?” Gloria asked, turning to Sloane and Kendall. “Something tells me it’s still new.”
“We’re not dating,” Sloane choked. Which then led to a coughing fit since she had just swallowed some wine and the liquid hadn’t had the chance to move all the way down.
A few smacks on her back from Kendall set her right again.
“We’re just colleagues,” Kendall added, saving the situation, though Sloane hated that she had messed up the damage control herself. “We’re doing a documentary on the impact of fires on the local community.”
“So, you’re just having sex, then?” Gloria waggled her bushy eyebrows, seemingly uninterested in their documentary and very interested in their personal life. “I can feel the sexual tension between—”
“That’s enough, Glo,” Natasha said, looking mortified. “This is why we can’t have new people over for harvest dinner. You always do this.”
“Do what?” Gloria bellowed, her thick red lips dropping open, aghast. “What are you saying, Natasha? That I’m inappropriate?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I am saying,” Natasha declared, rubbing two fingers against either temple. “Now, can you please stop interrogating our guests?”
“I have a certain proclivity for noticing sexual tension between two people,” Gloria said, reaching for her glass of wine and winking at Sloane and Kendall over the rim. “And you two reek of it. So, what’s the situation?”
Sloane had no desire to answer that question, but she also had no intention of breaking up a family. A change in topic would do best, and so she said the first thing that came to mind. “Did you know that Kendall’s father is the one and only Evans Wilde?”
That did the trick.
Everyone snapped their heads in Kendall’s direction, forgetting all about the supposed sexual tension that was apparently obvious to only Gloria.
“No. Fricken. Ways,” Natasha cried, enunciating each word, her eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. “We love that movie, Forgetting All About Him. Don’t we, Estelle?”
“Loved it,” Estelle said, resting her chin on her fist, a dreamy look on her face.
“We actually thought it was a romance when we first started watching it. You know, given the title. But it turned out to be a suspenseful thriller questioning every character’s motives. It was brilliant. I still get chills.”
“You know what, your dad really should start adding more queer characters to his movies,” Betty pointed out.
“I love his work, but I find myself disappointed when the only LGBTQ representation is a fleeting cameo or a token best friend. It’s 2024 for crying out loud. We deserve more than just a subplot.”
Sloane was just about to agree—Evans really had to stop casting cis white men for all his lead roles—when she noticed how uncomfortable Kendall looked.
She looked like she was trapped in one of those blinding spotlights with nowhere to hide.
She was fidgeting with a napkin on the table, her gaze down on the empty plate.
And those cheeks, well, they were already beginning to change color.
A rosy red that could turn blood red in a minute.
Was Sloane just imagining it, or did Kendall hate being called out as a Hollywood royalty daughter?
Did she detest everything that nepotism had to offer?
Or was her reaction something else? Was she still feeling the after-effects of Gloria’s comment?
Did they really display a certain kind of sexual tension?
Like pheromones only detected by a specific species. In this case, Gloria.
It became obvious that it wasn’t the latter when Gloria said, “You know, I always wondered… you see all those children of actors and actresses follow in their parent’s footsteps, like Maya Hawke and Lily-Rose Depp. Are you heading to Hollywood, too?” She pointed at Kendall.
Kendall’s ears lit up bright red and Sloane squirmed in her seat as a twinge of guilt settled in her gut. If she had known Kendall would hate it, she never would have mentioned the connection.
But then again, how could she have known? They knew very little about each other. Three days together and Sloane barely knew a thing about the woman except that she loved Dolly Parton, hated being the center of attention, and could change a tire better than some men.
Yet, here Sloane was, shining a big, bright spotlight right on Kendall’s face.
The only solution was to change the conversation… again… and quickly. “Speaking of movies, have any of you seen the new horror film that came out last month? The one with the mouths sown into trees.”
“Are you talking about Kissing Old Mrs. Sherman?” Rebecca asked. Very softly, mind you, so that Sloane had to lean a little forward.
“That’s the one,” Sloane said, catching Kendall’s eye, glad to see that redness seep away.
Even her shoulders looked less bunched up.
“I’m obsessed with a horror that sneaks up on you and it’s not even about the jump scares, but the psychological trauma of expecting something that doesn’t come… until it does.”
Betty frowned so hard it looked painful. “People who watch horror movies have damaged psyches. It’s a fact.”
“I think you’re talking about the true crime fans,” Gloria countered.
“There’s research that shows listening to true crime can actually activate the brain’s pleasure center.
It’s like a weird form of escapism. People find consolation in exploring the dark side of humanity from the comfort of their couches. ”
“That’s not true,” Natasha interjected, giving an unconvincing chuckle. “I love listening to true crime. The gorier the better and I’m not trying to escape anything… or explore my dark side.”
Estelle cleared her throat. “I think I heard the oven go off.” She pushed her chair back, stood up, and clapped her hands. “How about we save the psychological analysis for another time and enjoy some dinner?”