Clarke
Brie Kennedy was quickly becoming my favorite Kennedy.
Not that I’d met many, but still—she was winning by a landslide.
Watching her and Avalon together was like watching two versions of the same storm: same dark hair, same rare grey eyes, same effortless charisma.
They could’ve passed as sisters instead of aunt and niece.
The sight tugged at something in my chest, sharp and sudden. I missed my own sister. Melody would cry if I didn’t call before my flight tomorrow. Colton wouldn’t care, but Mel… she always cared. I made a mental note to call home before bed.
I took a cautious sip. Sweet, tart, smooth. Dangerous.
“This is really good,” I said, surprised.
“Careful,” Brie called from behind the bar. “Those are the drinks that sneak up on you. Next thing you know, you’re face-down in a dumpster wearing clothes that are very obviously not your own.”
Avalon snorted. “You’re not speaking from personal experience, are you?”
Brie raised her hands. “A Kennedy never snitches.”
Avalon rolled her eyes, then looked at me. Really looked. Her gaze swept over me—quick, assessing, lingering just long enough to make my skin warm. She wasn’t checking me out. She couldn’t be. Avalon Kennedy didn’t look at girls like me.
Except… she kind of was.
I shifted, suddenly aware of every inch of my body. Months of public scrutiny had carved insecurities into me I didn’t want to admit. I straightened, trying to look taller, stronger, less… exposed.
Her expression softened. The cigarette she’d tucked behind her ear slipped slightly, and she didn’t even notice.
“Please don’t do that,” I muttered.
“Do what?” she asked, genuinely confused.
“Look at me like you want to eat me.”
Her lips curved. “What if I did?”
My face went hot. I stared at the floor, praying the music was loud enough to drown out the sound of my heartbeat.
Luckily, Brie whistled sharply, drawing our attention. A crowd had gathered around the bar, buzzing with anticipation.
“What’s going on?” I whispered.
“Shh.” Avalon pressed a finger to her lips. “Brie’s about to explain the rules.” Before I could ask what rules, Avalon slipped her hand into mine and tugged me forward. Her hand was warm. Steady. Confident.
I should’ve pulled away. I didn’t.
Brie hopped onto the bar with the grace of someone who’d done it a thousand times. “Alright, party people! Welcome to Pit 5°’s weekly game night!”
The crowd erupted. I blinked, bewildered.
“If you’re new here,” Brie continued, “I’m Aubrielle Kennedy, owner of Pit 5°, but you can call me Brie. Every week, on random days, we host a game night. Twenty dollars per person, and all proceeds go to Happy Feet Dancing Academy.”
My smile grew. A nonprofit. Of course Brie was that kind of person.
“She’s pretty cool, huh?” Avalon murmured.
“Cool?” I whispered back. “Avalon, she’s amazing.”
Avalon’s smile softened in a way I hadn’t seen before—quiet, reverent, almost vulnerable.
Brie explained the rules: two teams, fifteen tasks, two and a half hours to complete them.
Each task required a photo. No one could be photographed twice.
The tasks ranged from balancing margarita cups on strangers’ heads to finding hidden granite chess pieces somewhere in Mayfair.
“Are you ready?” Brie shouted.
We cheered.
“On your mark, get set… go!”
And then we ran.
Avalon’s hand stayed locked with mine as we bolted into the night, laughter spilling out of us like we were kids again. For a moment, I forgot about the cameras, the expectations, the grief that lived in my ribs.
For a moment, it was just us.