Chapter 5
T he buzz of the golf carts reached me before I saw them—an electric hum layered over the cicadas and the slow hush of the breeze.
I stepped onto the porch barefoot, the wood warm under my feet.
Two carts came into view at the same time—one swerving slightly as Jack overcorrected the turn into the driveway.
The other cart was driven smoothly by Fitz, loaded down with designer bags, a Yeti cooler, and a single slim figure in cream linen perched beside him.
Sloane.
Of course she wasn’t holding canvas bags. She had cream-and-tan checkered Louis Vuitton luggage stacked behind her like it had never known a baggage claim. Of course her hair didn’t move in the wind. Of course she made traveling by golf cart look like an arrival at Cannes.
Jack waved as he pulled up, and Jazz beamed from the passenger seat, lifting her sunglasses with one hand while the other balanced a bouquet of sunflowers from the farmers’ market. “We’re here!” she called, already hopping out and climbing the steps.
My soon-to-be sister-in-law was the living embodiment of her name. Her thick, lively dark curls blew in the breeze, her sun-drenched bronze skin glowed, and her vibe was giving bubbly baddie with a master’s degree and a permanent invite to your group chat.
“You’re tan,” she said, pulling me into a hug. “And your hair looks amazing.”
“It’s called stress and saltwater,” I said, trying to sound breezy.
Jack followed with a grocery tote in each hand.
“Hey, Cupcake,” he said, hugging me and tousling the top of my head like it hadn’t been years since he last used that nickname.
“Careful,” I muttered. “I’m armed now.”
“You wish,” he grinned.
Fitz parked just behind him, killing the engine with a flick of his wrist. He hopped out and rounded the cart to offer Sloane a hand.
Sloane stepped out slow and graceful, adjusting her Prada sunglasses with that smooth languid ease that made you feel like your whole body was too loud.
She looked like a long stem tulip—slim elegant lines, silky long brown hair, and the kind of creamy, airbrushed skin that said SPF was a religion, not a suggestion.
“Charlie,” she said with a hint of a smile that stopped just short of warm. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“You too,” I said, shaking her hand. “I heard you were bringing reinforcements for the booze, thank God, because we’re down to half a bottle of cheap grocery store wine.”
Her nose crinkled in distaste. “Only French rosé and Champagne,” she said, like that was self-explanatory. “And some Bordeaux of course.”
Fitz was already unloading bags—silent, efficient, avoiding eye contact like it cost him something. He didn’t look at me at all; he just grabbed a grocery bag and tossed it to Jack.
“Morning,” he said flatly, like I was just the neighbor’s kid, not someone who once watched him skinny-dip from behind a dune and never recovered.
“Charming as ever,” I muttered.
That earned me the ghost of a smirk, the kind that meant trouble if you chased it. “Only when absolutely necessary,” he said, disappearing inside with Sloane’s luggage.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I grabbed a tote of produce and walked it toward the kitchen to escape the awkward couple fest. I was still unpacking the produce into the crisper when my phone buzzed.
Thatcher
Still good to swing by?
Could use a beach day… and you.
I stared at the screen.
This wasn’t about Fitz; this was about balance—and maybe needing someone to look at me like I was the main event, not the annoying little sister who was always in the way.
We’re the last house on Lemondrop Lane. Come by whenever.
T hat evening, the deck glowed gold with the kind of soft light that made everything feel nostalgic—even things that were happening in real time.
Jazz had found the perfect playlist and beach music tinkled softly through speakers.
Jack and Fitz were at the outdoor bar making cocktails for the group as Jazz and I sat on the settee, watching the two of them conspire together.
Sloane was still inside, freshening her makeup and deciding whether the evening called for linen or silk.
Jack was pumping a cocktail shaker with vigor, and Fitz stood beside him with his sleeves rolled to the elbows, pouring bitters into a cut-glass tumbler.
“I swear you two missed your true calling,” Jazz said, curled up in the wicker chair with her legs tucked under her. “You should open a bar. Call it Jack and Fitz. ”
“Oof,” I said. “That even sounds like a drink.”
Jack laughed. “You know Fitz would never go for anything so…pedestrian.”
Fitz didn’t look up; he just stirred the drink exactly six times, then twisted a lemon peel with surgical precision. “Correct,” he said. “Manual labor gives me hives.”
“You sailed competitively all through college,” I pointed out, raising a brow. “Pretty sure that counts.”
“A hobby out on the water is hardly manual labor,” he said, finally glancing up. “And we put on blazers and had dinner at the yacht club when the regattas were over.”
Jazz snorted as Jack came over with two cocktails. He leaned down and gave her a quick peck and then turned to me.
“Here you go, baby sis. And I won’t even I.D. you.”
Fitz chuckled and his eyes flicked to mine for a glimmer of a second.
I rolled my eyes “What’s in this?”
“Bourbon, orange, a little maple,” Fitz said, already halfway through crafting another. “Technically it’s a Gold Rush variation, but elevated.”
“Wow,” I said, voice dry. “You must be exhausted.”
“I am,” he replied, smiling into his pour. “But at least I’ll be hydrated.”
The patio settled into laughter and clinking glasses, the air soft with salt and sugar and unspoken things.
Sloane hadn’t said much since she joined us out on the patio; she just sipped her pale rosé and adjusted her sunglasses every so often like she was watching a slow-moving play.
I didn’t bother trying to decipher her expression. I had enough trouble managing my own.
That’s when I heard the golf cart. It came up the lane a little too fast—like someone who didn’t know whether to brake or just hope for the best. I stood, smoothed my dress, and tried not to flinch when the tires crunched louder than necessary on the gravel.
Thatcher jumped out like he was arriving at a frat party on the beach. His hair was still damp, like he’d rinsed off in an outdoor shower before coming over.
“Hey,” he said, grinning as he bounded up the steps. “Smells like someone knows their way around a cocktail menu.” He leaned in to kiss my cheek, hand lingering at the small of my back. I smiled—tight but committed.
“Everyone, this is Thatcher,” I said.
Jazz gave him a friendly wave. Jack stood and shook his hand with a friendly, “Hey man, it’s good to meet you.”
“Heard you’ve been keeping this one occupied since she’s set up shop here,” Jazz added with a teasing smile.
“I try,” Thatcher grinned, taking the seat beside me.
After a few minutes of idle chatter, Thatcher stood and wandered over to the bar like he was already part of the inner circle, ready to bro it up with Jack and Fitz.
His pink chino shorts were dotted with tiny embroidered lobsters— lobsters —and his white polo had one too many buttons undone, showing off a little chest, a little tan, and absolutely zero shame.
“What are you guys drinking?” he asked, clapping a hand on the counter. “Old Fashioneds?”
“Gold Rush, technically, Fitz would have you know,” Jack said with a warm grin. “He’s discerning with his cocktails, and, well…with everything, really.”
“Yeah, bourbon’s not really my thing,” Thatcher said with a grin. “I’ll just do tequila. Ooh—where’s a lime LaCroix?”
He cracked one open before anyone could answer, poured a generous splash of tequila over ice, and topped it with the sparkling water like he’d invented it.
I watched Fitz’s jaw tighten as he silently rearranged the bottles again—probably fighting the urge to alphabetize them out of spite.
I looked between them: Fitz in his rolled Oxford sleeves and loafers without socks, Jack with his classic Nantucket Reds and neat collar. And then Thatcher—wearing leather flip-flops and giving rich frat boy energy without the generational trust fund to back it.
God , I thought, he looks like someone who owns a koozie for every occasion.
Once he returned, mixed drink in hand, Thatcher leaned back and stretched one arm across the back of the chair behind me, like we were already in our couple era. I caught Fitz’s jaw flex—just barely—and looked away before I could enjoy it too much.
Thatcher smelled faintly of expensive cologne—just a little too strong for my liking. His watch caught the fading light, gold and gleaming, the way certain things do when they’re meant to be noticed.
“Nice spot,” he said, nodding toward the view. “This place must be worth a fortune now. You guys renting it out or is it a family thing?”
Jazz smiled, but Jack’s expression cooled just a notch, no doubt finding the discussion of money in poor taste. “It’s a family place,” Jack said. “We’ve had it for decades.”
“Ah. That explains the charm,” Thatcher said, already reaching for the bottle of tequila Fitz hadn’t offered him. “Old places like this, you can’t buy character.”
“No,” Fitz said, without looking up. “You really can’t.”
I took a sip of my drink and tried not to visibly crawl out of my skin, catching Fitz’s implication though Thatcher was none the wiser.
This was fine. Everything was totally fine.
The sun dipped a little lower behind the dunes, and the shadows stretched longer across the porch floor. I leaned forward, poured myself more wine, and smiled like I didn’t want to disappear into the cushions.