college and would be joining via video call near the end of the party. “The sculpture garden.”
Jameson’s green eyes made a study of my face. “And what will we be doing in the sculpture garden?” he asked, an appropriate amount of suspicion in his tone.
I smiled. “Guess.”
“The name of the game is Hide and Go Soak.” Wearing a brilliant-blue tuxedo that looked like it belonged on the red carpet, and holding what had to be the world’s biggest water gun, Xander was truly in his element. “The objective: utter aqua domination.”
Five minutes later, I ducked behind a bronze sculpture of Theseus and the Minotaur. Libby was already back there, squatting on the ground, her vintage 1950s dress bunched up around her thighs.
“How are you feeling?” Libby asked me, keeping her voice low. “Big night.”
I peeked out around the Minotaur’s haunches, then retreated again.
“Right now, I’m feeling hunted.” I grinned. “How are you?”
“Ready.” Libby looked down at the water balloons she held in each hand —and at her twin tattoos: SURVIVOR on one wrist, and on the other…
TRUST.
Footsteps. I braced myself just as Nash scaled Theseus and landed between Libby and me, holding what appeared to be a melted water gun.
“Jamie and Gray have joined forces. Xander has a blowtorch. This is never good.” Nash looked to me. “You’re still armed. Good. Steady and calm, kid.
No mercy.”
Libby leaned around Nash to catch my eyes. “Remember,” she told me, her eyes dancing, “there’s no such thing as fighting dirty if you win.”
I turned my water gun on Nash right as she creamed him with a water balloon.
At eight, the party moved indoors to the climbing wall. Jameson sidled up to me. “Soaking wet in a ball gown,” he murmured. “This could be a challenge.”
I wrung out my hair and flicked water his way. “I’m up for it.”
At nine, we made our way to the bowling alley. At ten, we headed for the pottery—as in, a room with potting wheels and a kiln.
By the time eleven o’clock rolled around and we made our way down the labyrinthine halls of Hawthorne House to the arcade, our gowns and tuxes had been soaked, ripped, and spattered with clay. I was exhausted, sore, and filled with an exhilaration that defied description.
This was it.
This was the night.
This was everything.
This was us.
In the arcade, four private chefs met us, each with a signature dish to present. Slow-braised beef soup served with pork buns so tender they should be illegal. Lobster risotto. The first two courses nearly undid me, and that was before I bit into a sushi roll that looked like a work of art just as the final chef set our dessert on fire.
I looked to Oren. He was the one who’d cleared the private chefs to come here tonight. “You have to try this,” I told him. “All of it.”
I watched as Oren gave in and tasted a pork bun, and then I felt someone else watching me. Grayson was wearing a silver tuxedo with sharp, angular lines, no bow tie, the shirt buttoned all the way up.
I thought he might keep his distance, but he strode over to me, his expression assessing. “You have a plan,” he commented, his voice low and smooth and sure.
My heart rate ticked up. I didn’t just have a plan. I had A Plan. “I wrote it down,” I told Grayson. “And then I rewrote it, again and again.”
He was the Hawthorne I’d thought of the most as I was doing it, the one whose reaction I could least predict.