Page 34 of Meant to be Mine

“That’s one option.”

“It’s the smart one.”

“It’s the safe one,” he said. “But here’s the other thing I want you to think about. She goes back to New Jersey at the end of the summer.”

“Exactly,” I said, feeling the ache of her absence before she’d even gone. “Even if I wanted something between us, which I don’t, she’s still leaving and that’s that.”

12

KENSEY

The quiches were calling my name. I had spotted them on a passing tray and snagged three before the server could get too far, earning a slightly startled look that I ignored completely. I was not ashamed. I had been on my feet for hours and I had earned every single one of them. I carried my bounty and slipped through the open patio doors.

I let the night air hit me. God. That was what I needed. The room wasn’t stuffy, but there were a lot of people, which meant a lot of breathing and competing perfumes and colognes mixing with the food and liquor smells. It was a lot and I needed a second of not brushing up against someone’s arm.

The sound of the waves was low and soothing. It worked on my nervous system immediately, the way it always did. I’d forgotten how much I missed this. The east coast had beaches but they weren’t the same. It wasn’t nearly as warm and the humidity was definitely higher.

The patio was dotted with small clusters of people—a few couples leaning against the railing, a group of buyers I recognized from earlier in the evening deep in conversation near the far end. I found a little corner near the railing where the string lights cast a warm, amber glow and nobody was standing. I claimed it as my safe space. No bodies. No voices. No smells. Just me and the sea air.

I looked up. Clear sky. The moon was big and bright and sitting right over the water like a decoration specifically for the party. I stared at it for a moment and just breathed.

The event was a success. I could feel it in the room, in the way people were moving and laughing and lingering instead of doing the polite circuit and leaving early. The food was gone almost as fast as it came out. I had watched three separate people go back for second helpings of the crostini, which meant I had been right about the quantities. Thank God we’d gone with extra. A party that runs out of food is not a party.

I bit into a quiche. Warm, flaky, some kind of caramelized onion situation happening inside. Excellent. Walter had been right about suggesting we add them. I chewed and stared at the moon and told myself I was doing a very good job of not thinking about Drew.

Except I wasn’t, obviously. I was thinking about him constantly, the way you think about a song stuck in your head. Not because you chose it but because it was just there, running underneath everything else. A steady ticker running through my mind. Drew is so handsome. Drew is a great guy. Drew is good for you.

I ate my second quiche and stared at the moon.

“There she is.”

Callum was walking toward me with Victoria on one arm and Cleo on the other, the three of them moving through the patio like they had all the time in the world and every right to be wherever they happened to land. Which, to be fair, they did. To be a Blackwell in this world must be one hell of an experience.

Cleo stepped forward. She had always been beautiful, and like Drew, she’d always been kind. I never bragged about my association with the famous Blackwell family. I respected their privacy and never talked about them to anyone else.

“Kensey.” She pulled me into a hug. “You look absolutely stunning. I mean it. That dress looks bonkers on you.”

“Thank you.” I laughed a little. “I feel a bit like I’m playing dress-up, honestly.”

“I wish I looked that good playing dress-up,” Victoria said firmly, arriving at my side and looking me over with wide, appreciative eyes. “That is not dress-up. That is a woman slaying in the perfect outfit. There’s a difference and you need to own it.”

“Annika,” I said simply.

Cleo tilted her head. “Annika picked it out for you?”

“Drew asked her to find something from the collection.” I smoothed a hand down the fabric self-consciously. “He said it made sense. Free advertisement.”

There was a beat of silence. Cleo and Victoria looked at each other. A look that lasted less than a second and communicated an entire conversation.

“Right,” Cleo said mildly.

“Free advertisement,” Victoria repeated, with a small smile she didn’t quite manage to hide behind her champagne glass.

“He’s a thoughtful employer,” I said. “I feel very grateful I get to be wearing anything Blackwell. Like a princess. At midnight I turn into a pumpkin!”

“How has it been, working with him?” Cleo asked. “Is he terrible?”

“He’s not terrible at all, actually.” I meant it. “He’s focused and he knows what he wants and he doesn’t micromanage once he trusts you to handle something. Which is not what I expected, honestly.”