Chapter 4 — The First Line Crossed
The First Line Crossed
The Bishop patio glowed under strings of white lights that Mark had hung across the pergola sometime that afternoon, and the whole place smelled like charred cedar planks and whatever Caroline had been grilling for the past hour.
Music carried from speakers wired along the dock, something with enough bass that I could feel it in the boards under my feet, and the lake beyond the railings had that perfect Memorial Day darkness where the water turned black and the boat lights bobbed like fireflies.
I'd dressed deliberately: fitted navy polo, clean khakis, boat shoes I could stand in for hours. Not trying too hard. Just Luke Whitaker, reliable adult, the kind of man parents trusted with their coolers and their docks and, unfortunately for everyone, their daughters.
My strategy was simple. Stick to my lane.
Stay with the parents. Talk about boats, property taxes, the new marina regulations, anything that would keep me firmly planted in the world of adults who saw me as the safe bachelor with the good bourbon and the steady hands.
If I let the women have their fun with people their own age, maybe they'd stop looking at me like I was something they wanted to unwrap.
Mark caught me by the outdoor kitchen, two beers already opened, one extended toward me with the easy generosity of a man who trusted the summer circle to stay exactly what it had always been.
"Whitaker. Perfect timing. I need a second opinion on these ribs." He gestured toward a platter where something dark and glazed was sending up tendrils of smoke that smelled like brown sugar and whiskey. "Too sweet?"
I took the beer, leaned against the counter, and let the conversation settle around me like armor.
Mark's golf buddy joined us, then one of the Madden parents, then a couple I recognized from three coves down who'd been coming to Waverly since before the girls were born.
We talked about dock repair and water levels and the new speed limit signs the county had installed at the north end.
Safe topics. Adult topics. The kind of talk that reminded everyone I was thirty-eight, not twenty-one, and belonged exactly where I was standing.
Across the patio, the younger crowd had claimed the dock and the far end of the pergola.
Bodies everywhere. Music louder there. Someone had brought a portable speaker that was competing with Mark's dock system, and the result was a layered summer noise that filled the space between the house and the water like warm air.
I let myself look. Just once. Just to confirm my strategy was working.
Kiki stood near the dock steps, golden blonde hair loose around her shoulders, wearing a pale blue dress that ended above her knees and caught the string lights when she moved.
Owen Kerr had found her, sandy-haired and smiling, leaning against the railing with the relaxed confidence of a man who expected to be listened to.
Ryan Pike was there too, darker, leaner, his grin aimed at Kiki like a weapon he'd used before.
She laughed at something one of them said, that bright, carrying laugh that turned heads without effort, and for a second, I felt the relief I'd been chasing.
Good. This was good. Men her age. Attention she deserved.
The world working the way it was supposed to.
Then her blue eyes found mine across twenty feet of patio, and the relief evaporated like morning dew.
She didn't stare. Didn't hold the look long enough for anyone to notice.
Just a quick, deliberate connection, her mouth still smiling at whatever Owen had said, and in that half-second, I saw everything: the pantry, her hand on my cock, the weight of her breast against my palm, the sound she'd made against my mouth when my fingers dug into her ass.
All of it, right there in her eyes, while she stood between two men half my age and made it look like she belonged exactly where she was.
I looked away first. Drank my beer. Asked Mark's golf buddy about his boat's winter storage, and tried very hard to sound like I gave a shit about shrink wrap.
Tatum was everywhere at once, the way she always was.
Copper-red hair flying as she bounced between groups, freckles catching light, her laugh sharp enough to cut through the music.
She'd dragged a cluster of siblings into some story that involved wild hand gestures and a dramatic reenactment of someone falling off a paddleboard, and the resulting shriek of laughter carried across the whole patio.
She caught me watching, winked without breaking her story, and spun back into the crowd like a pinball finding a new bumper.
Reese had claimed a spot on the dock railing, glossy brown hair lifting in the night breeze, honey-brown eyes warm as she listened to someone's story with the focused attention that made everyone feel like the most interesting person in the room.
She looked like summer itself, golden skin glowing under the string lights, and when she laughed, her whole body got involved, shoulders shaking, head tipped back.
She caught my eye across the patio and smiled, slow and sweet, the kind of smile that said she was remembering something private and wasn't going to share it with anyone but me.
Shay was holding court near the coolers, dark brunette hair messy in that way she pretended was accidental, vivid blue eyes scanning the crowd like she was taking inventory.
She said something to the group around her, something with a dirty edge that I couldn't hear but could read in the way three people clutched their drinks and howled with laughter.
She looked over at me mid-punchline, raised an eyebrow, and mouthed something that looked suspiciously like "still listening?
" before turning back to her audience with the satisfied grin of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
Penny had positioned herself near the flowerbeds where the light was best, platinum blonde hair sleek under the string lights, green eyes sharp behind sunglasses she'd pushed into her hair.
She was taking photos with her phone, angling herself against the patio backdrop, and two guys I didn't recognize had drifted into her orbit like moths to a flame.
She let them. Smiled at whatever they said.
Tossed her hair in that practiced way that made the platinum catch light.
And every few minutes, her green eyes found mine across the patio, checking to see if I was watching, and the slight curve of her mouth when she confirmed I was said everything about why those two guys didn't stand a chance.
Eden moved through it all with quiet precision, dark brunette hair glossy under the lights, hazel eyes tracking the room like she was directing traffic.
She adjusted a speaker, passed a drink to someone who needed it, laughed at the right moment in someone's story, and never stopped moving.
But her path wasn't random. I watched her circle the patio twice in ten minutes, and both times she paused near where I was standing, close enough to catch fragments of my conversation with the adults, before continuing on with the casual efficiency of someone gathering intelligence.
Six women. Six different versions of the same message, delivered through laughter and light and the certain knowledge that I was watching.
I stuck with the adults. Talked about property taxes until my throat was dry.
Laughed at the right jokes. Nodded along with stories about dock permits and water ski tournaments and the summer the Bells' dog ate an entire platter of burgers.
Normal conversation. Safe conversation. The kind that should have made me feel like I belonged exactly where I was.
But every time Kiki laughed, I felt it in my chest. Every time her blue eyes found mine across the patio, my skin remembered her hands.
And the worst part was, she knew it. I could see it in the way she smiled at Owen, polite and warm and completely present, while some part of her attention remained fixed on me like a homing beacon she had no intention of turning off.
The crowd would save me. That was the plan.
Thirty people between us, music loud enough to drown out private thoughts, the whole machinery of a summer night working exactly the way it was supposed to.
Kiki would have fun with men her age. I'd have boring conversations with men mine.
Everyone would go home satisfied, and the line I'd almost crossed would stay where it belonged.
That was the plan.
My body, which had spent the afternoon remembering the feel of Kiki Bishop's hand on my cock, knew better.
The party hit that sweet spot around ten where the energy had nowhere to go but forward.
The parents were settling into lawn chairs with the comfortable exhaustion of people who'd hosted all day, the music had shifted to something slower that carried better across the water, and the younger crowd had that restlessness in their bodies that said the night was too good to end on a Bishop patio, no matter how many string lights Mark had hung.
I was helping Caroline clear a platter of something that had been picked clean when Tatum materialized beside us, copper-red hair escaping its ponytail, freckles glowing under the patio lights, her whole body vibrating with the energy she reserved for ideas she knew would cause trouble.
"Luke." She grabbed my arm, her fingers warm against my skin.
"We need to keep this going. Your house.
Your pool. The lights, the music, everything.
Please? Please please please?" She bounced on her toes, her breasts shifting under her top with each bounce, and the look on her face was so openly, shamelessly hopeful that three people turned to watch.
"Your pool is so much better than ours, and it's still warm out, and we'll be good, I promise.
Swear to God. Scouts honor. Whatever you want. "