Alexis elbows me in the back. “Stand up straight.”
“Why are you two so invested in this?”
Nour shrugs. “Hopeless romantic.”
Alexis is smiling, which I’ve only seen happen four times in my life. It’s alarming. “Because I’d rather see one of us get the guy than one ofthem.” She tips her head to thethems, all of whom are riding forward, each nudging theirhorse to go faster in an effort to get ahead, but none of them wanting to make it obvious.
“Not happening.”
There’s a little flutter and dip inside me that says I might like for it to happen. I scowl at them, then nod to Tristan, who dips in his chin in response.
“See,” I hiss. “Everything is normal.”
Everything is not normal. Normal would be Tristan jumping off the pony to give me a horse-scented hug, mashing my face into his chest and trying to rub hay in my hair. Normal would be him forcing me to pet one of the animals because he knows I’m terrified of them. This is not normal. I broke normal on Friday night because even after twenty-six years, I still haven’t learned my lesson about clinging to people, and now I have the wounds to prove it.
I watch Léa lean over and grasp Tristan’s hand. He smiles. It makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. I swear someone sighs.
Alexis mutters a curse under her breath. “If only he didn’t look likethat.”
Yeah. If only.
The friendly match starts, just three on three, and I force myself to watch clinically.
I better get used to this, because this is the new normal.
“Do you have any tips?”
I whirl. Léa is behind me, on her white pony, her blond hair gleaming under a black helmet. She even has a pretty purple bow on the end of her braid. I met her on one of Tristan’s dates and we immediately bonded over how annoying the paparazzi are. I’m remembering now that shewent on a real date with Tristan years ago. They did a post-college summer program together in Paris, and I spent hours painstakingly translating their recent messages in Google translate, swearing if I ever had the chance to learn a second language, I’d take it.
“Tips?”
She nods and holds her hand out for a water, which Alexis passes her without comment, her lips pressed in a flat line. I notice that it’s one of the ones that’s been sitting in the sun. Alexis is a firm believer in petty revenge.
“For getting his attention.” Léa wipes her mouth and tosses the bottle onto the ground. We all watch it thunk against the grass. “You seem to have captured it. The internet is calling youHot Bodyguard.Should I dye my hair?”
My pulse is pounding so fast that it must be visible in my neck. This is my nightmare. Beyond just the video and all the thousands of comments and the media speculation that’s been pinging around all day. Beyond all of that is the scrutiny from people in Tristan’s social circle. I’ve watched his friends and admirers on the security cameras, but having their hawklike gazes on me is enough to make my whole body flush.
I want to laugh. Or cry. Okay, probably cry.
“You have nice hair,” I say. “Don’t dye it. Just be yourself.”
She tips her head, eyeing my hair. I briefly wonder if she might cut my hair off and make it into a wig. I thought she liked me. I thought—I chance a glance at Tristan—I thought we could be friends one day, or allies. She seems most likely to win him.
I’m supposed to take a bullet for her.
“I want to know what you think he sees in you, specifically.”
“I do too,” another woman chimes in from atop herpony. Vanessa. She’s a redhead too. “I mean, I have red hair and he’s never looked at me the way he looked at you in that video.”
I look to Tristan again, hoping he’ll come over and interrupt this. He’s always so good at knowing when I need backup, but he’s lost in conversation with Amber, chuckling at something she’s said. A fist seems to tighten around my heart.
I might have started us on the path to ruination, but it takes two to break a friendship. He hasn’t texted. He hasn’t met me for a run. He’s barely even looked at me.
My hands are shaking and I tuck them into my back pockets, hoping I look nonchalant, like the Hot Bodyguard they claim I am instead of a weirdo who never learned how to handle herself in big groups.
“He likes humor,” I say, my voice halting. “He likes people who are a little bit weird. He really likes science and interesting facts about the world. Documentaries. Sailing. He likes dogs even though he doesn’t have one. He doesn’t sleep very well because he’s always working at night, but don’t worry, it’s not in an annoying way, more like a mad-scientist kind of way. He’s really smart. Genius-level, actually. He’s only down two chess games to me. Two seventy to two seventy-two. He likes hugs. Way more than most people. He gives good ones.” I’m blabbering now, but I can’t stop. “Um, custom t-shirts with jokes on them and new foods. He won’t put whiskey in cocktails, so don’t do that. Running, swimming, and sparring. He’s really active. He’ll talk your ear off while running, though, so be ready and make sure you’re not jogging too fast. I try to keep it at an eight-minute-mile pace unless I’m trying to beat him. He really likes to laugh, and he likes people who are confident, and he’s a good dancer. Really good, actually. The best.” The finalword croaks out of me, and the women stare at me with stunned expressions.
“Are you in love with him?”
