“We necked outside the Piggly Wiggly at least twice.”
At Stella’s side, Abby Wrangler ceremoniously clinked wineglasses with her fraternal twin sister. Abby was curvy, with an auburn, cheekbone-grazing bob that made her look much older than she was. Jamie wouldn’t have guessed they were related if not for their violent orange spray tans and identical, ear-piercing cackles.
“We both did,” Abby squeaked.
No matter if it was a hometown concert or backyard cookout, Jamie was always cornered by a rotating cast of nosy neighbors and former classmates. They either treated him like a walking photo op or signpost for reliving the “good old days.”
Case in point, he found himself caught in the Wrangler sisters’ clutches, beneath a cabana festooned with twinkling fairy lights. The beaming women planned to drag him, kicking and screaming, down memory lane.
On a stage across from the pool, a local band played an enthusiastic cover of Tim McGraw’s “I Like It, I Love It,” sending the packed dance floor into a frenzy. Beneath the stately pinewood pavilion, long tables boasted Liza’s never-ending feast.
Jamie looked to Cory, who stood across from them, for help. His best friend ran a hand over his low-cut fade and laughed into his beer. Oh, he’d pay for that later.
Jamie took a swig of his own beer, fishing for one of his go-to lines that usually worked. “Those were the good old days, right?”
In fairness, Jamie had blocked most of junior high from his mind. It was his darkest grieving period after his mother’s sudden death when he was thirteen. Back then, he had done a lot of stupid things to avoid his feelings. Stolen beer from his father’s mini fridge. Missed curfews. And, yes, his fair share of heavy petting in darkened parking lots.
The sisters prattled on about junior prom, but Jamie wasn’t listening. He was scanning the crowd for Brinton. He needed to find an opening for them to talk. But each time he saw her, she was deep in conversation with someone else.
Doing the job he brought her there to do. Right.
Stella cupped one hand on his ass. She squeezed hard, ripping him from temporary solace.
“And if memory serves me right,” she purred, “you were very good on the dance floor.”
Jamie bristled, then quickly buried his annoyance beneath his practiced, for-the-cameras smile. Another thing he loathed about hometown parties: people thinking they couldtake a piece of him whenever they wanted because he was somewhat famous.
“Well, ladies, it was nice to catch up,” Jamie said through gritted teeth. “I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.”
“You can’t leave so soon,” Stella whined.
“You just got here,” Abby drawled.
“You know what? I see our dear friend Sherlock, who we haven’t spoken to all night,” Jamie said. He slapped Cory’s bulging shoulder cap hard enough for him to get the hint.
Sherlock was the code name they’d used since sixth grade to escape any unpleasant scenario. “We can’t be rude. So, if you’ll excuse us.”
“Oh, right. Sherlock’s here. We couldn’t be rude,” Cory echoed, his Oscar-worthy acting skills coming in clutch.
They waved to the women, now with pronounced frowns on their faces, and retreated toward the pool. As they left, the sisters whispered in not-so hushed tones.
“He used to be better looking, don’t you think?” Stella accused.
“Hairline’s getting thin,” Abby hissed. “But bless his heart.”
Once they were out of earshot, Jamie and Cory busted out laughing.
Brinton had knockedout a few background interviews with other partygoers, quickly discovering that Iris locals were friendly, animated, and loved to gossip about their hometown hero. The standouts included Mrs. Hollyhand, Jamie’s kindergarten teacher, with whom he regularly exchanged handwritten letters. And she still critiqued his penmanship.
Then there was Mr. Gilbert, who owned a conveniencestore, where an eight-year-old Jamie once shoplifted chewing gum. Mr. Gilbert revealed that Jamie felt so guilty, he returned every chewed-up piece in a sticky ball. He volunteered to work off his debt in the storeroom after school.
Bob Lowell played JV football with Jamie and once walked in on him “jackin’ the beanstalk” to an Angelina Jolie photo spread inGQ. This was surprising, because Brinton had pinned him as a Jennifer Aniston kind of guy.
Earlier that night, Brinton had caught sight of Jamie, wearing a white T-shirt that still managed to scandalize his body’s rigid peaks and valleys. He was with a tall, handsome guy of even larger build. The men were close to the stage with two blondes, both in strappy white sundresses that made their natural-looking tans pop.
The group laughed heartily, and one of the women clasped Jamie’s bicep. Against her wishes, Brinton’s heart stuttered. The women were gorgeous, exactly the type she expected him to go for. Not that she had any kind of claim to him.
That was at least an hour ago. Where the hell was Jamie now? It was getting late, and Brinton needed to get her story back on track. She scanned the patio until her eyes landed on the fire pit.
