Page 3

You remember Camden Shepherd, right?

A tickle of fluttering wings grazed my insides. Memories I’d repressed into the darkest reaches of my mind sprang to the surface, vibrant and electric, as if they’d occurred only yesterday instead of years ago.

Silvery-blue eyes like a winter sky.

The brush of heat in a hand against my back.

My utter inability to look away from him.

The required extracurricular cotillion classes of all Sugar Springs students did not discriminate between class lines. I wound up in Camden Shepherd’s arms exactly twice in those months—enough to shape an amorphous crush into an unobtainable fantasy.

The Shepherd family practically owned Sugar Springs. The Shepherd wing at the hospital had doubled the town’s critical care capacity. The Mary F. Shepherd House provided housing for struggling families. Shepherd Park was the largest in the city, complete with a community swimming pool and golf course. The Shepherds were a pillar in the community, holding leadership positions on city boards, working in City Hall, serving as mayor—not currently, of course.

Obviously, the Shepherds were filthy rich, and boys like Cam Shepherd didn’t slum it with girls like Shay Honeycutt. The Cam Shepherds of the world received legacy acceptances to Ivy League schools and good-ol’-boyed their way into high-paying and powerful positions in corporate and political America. They summered in the Swiss Alps and trust-funded through life. They married posh women and hired nannies to raise their children.

Even as a teenager I knew that, but it still shredded through me like rusty barbed wire the night of the cotillion ball when, clad in the prettiest discount dress I could find, I overheard him gossiping about me with his friends.

She’s hot, sure, but she’s still just trailer trash in a dress.

Squeezing my eyes shut at the memory, I tried to shove it back down where it belonged. In the garbage. I should be like that Elsa still thrashing her brother in the street and let it go.

Besides, the Shepherd family likely had little to do with their distillery. They probably hired outside the family so they could pursue more glamorous pursuits and reap the benefits of being part of the One Percent. Touring the Shepherd distillery didn’t mean I’d deal with Camden Shepherd. I probably wouldn’t even see him.

I frowned at Ivy’s email once more. What did a tour of a distillery encompass? Wait. How did one even make bourbon? I pulled my ancient laptop onto my legs and let a MasterClass article suck me in deep enough that sudden clunking footsteps on the porch ratcheted my heart into my throat. From my peripheral vision, a dark figure approached, and a gasp scraped through my throat before Ravi plopped into the chair beside mine, unfazed.

“You scared the hell out of me!” I said.

He side-eyed the computer I’d lifted as a weapon. “Were you really going to beat me with your laptop?”

Straightening, I lifted my chin. “I cannot be held accountable for actions taken when I’m in the zone.”

He chuckled, but his eyes drifted toward my screen-mania. “I see we’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, and it’s only been”—he checked his watch—“seven hours since you received her email.”

I scowled at him.

“Have you thought about—just—answering her, Shay?”

I slid my glasses off and tossed them onto the table, massaging the bridge of my nose. “I’ve thought about everything. Decisions? Not so much.”

He settled deeper into his rocking chair. His black hair was messier than before he’d left the house, and the gray button-up that was perfectly pressed was now rumpled, the top button undone.

I narrowed my eyes. “Where’s Maribel?”

“Teaching late-night Zumba. I had dinner with her before.” Throwing his feet onto the table, he let his head fall lazily toward me.

Judging by his general disarray and relaxed vibe, it looked like he’d had more than dinner with his fiancée, and I suppressed the envy that often sprang to the surface during fleeting moments like this. Moments when I remembered I was still alone. Still broke. Still not good enough.

Mari and Rav were my OTP, and I couldn’t stop myself from wanting what they had—consummate love, happiness, a place to belong.

Financial stability.

“Typical Shay,” he said, studying my face. “Overthinking. Let me guess. You’ve already read the entire history of this distillery, the Shepherd family, stalked Ivy Hayes on social media, and learned how to make bourbon like an expert.”

Lips pursed, I snapped my laptop—still open to the MasterClass—closed.

Ravi wrapped his hands around his middle and laughed. “What harm could meeting her do? Maybe she really just wants to catch up.”

I shot him a look.