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I literally don’t even have time to describe his hotness any further than that—nor acknowledge that everyone in the room is now staring at me. “Francisco, I need you to work a miracle on me. Make me look de-fucking-licious for tonight. I’m talking can’t-pull-your-eyes-away, drop-dead, to-die-for. I want to be every fuck boy’s fuck-boy fantasy, pronto. I have two hundred dollars and a credit card.”
Francisco looks me over from head to toe. His lips curl with inspiration. “Cutie, you’ve come to the right place.”
Chapter 16 - Kent
The sun’s down. I stand at the large back windows of the Hopewell mansion, which overlook the deck and all of the decorative hanging lights. It’s loud and crowded here inside the house, but I know it won’t be any better outside either. The Hopewell estate is packed with literally every local imaginable, minus the few who chose not to close up their boardwalk shops tonight.
And Jonah is not by my side during any of this.
It’s okay. I wanted it this way, remember?
This is for the best.
“Good news.”
I turn to find my mom standing there with a wine glass in one hand and a finger sandwich in the other. She took the effort to put on the one nice dress she owns for this event, which is lovely and all, but then her hair is a wild mess of strawberry blonde tangles that look like a pair of vengeful seagulls had their way with it, and she has on clunky-looking sandals that don’t go with her dress at all.
This is all on par with her, by the way. Nothing new or different here. “What’s the good news?” I ask.
“Your dad’s coming.”
Oh. That’s a bit new. And different. “Why?”
“Because he’s your dad, and your dad never changes. Why else?”
“Who’d you hear this from? Martin?”
“Yep, Mr. Hopewell himself.”
“Lovely.”
“Something about him wanting to—” She takes a sip of wine. “—come back, congratulate his old friend on—” Another sip. “—twenty long years, blah, blah, bullshit—” A big gulp of wine. “—fuck if I know what else, who cares, fucking dick.” She downs the rest of her glass.
“Mom,” I say warningly.
She pops the rest of the sandwich into her mouth, too. “These are disgustingly delicious. I think Thalassa catered the event. Speaking of, have you seen your least favorite brother anywhere?”
I swear … “You better behave when Dad gets here.”
“What?” She blinks innocently. “You think I’d stoop so low as to cause a scene? At this big ol’ party? Lil’ ol’ me? Piss, shit, fuck, I’m out of wine.” She heads off without another word, and that may be the last I see of her here.
The mansion is two very generous stories tall, with six bedrooms and six and a half baths, a library, a long-ass dining room, and a living room that spans both stories, with windows that reach to the damned sky. It’s not a wonder at all that so many island-wide events are held here, including Christmas parties, New Year’s parties, July the Fourth bang-outs, an annual Valentine’s Gala, every birthday of Finn’s or his two older sisters or his father, or if anything big or noteworthy happens on Dreamwood Isle. I still remember this huge bash that happened just because some big gay celebrity endorsed the Hopewell Fair (I can’t be bothered to remember who) and the Hopewell name was all over the internet for one very hot minute.
And despite having all the money and luxury a person could ask for, somehow Mr. Hopewell’s son Finn did not turn out as a spoiled brat from Hell. In fact, Finn Hopewell is a downright angel trapped in a short muscle boy’s body.
“Kent, I’ve been looking for you!” Finn exclaims when I run into him by the buffet table, where I’ve located the finger sandwiches my mom was having mouth-sex with. After one bite, I discover that yes, they are disgustingly delicious. “I heard you were bringing a plus-one? Some special guy?”
I blink at him. Who told him that? And why? Between Coop, my mom, and my little brother, I have no idea who to blame for giving him that impression. No one makes a fuss when Adrian has a boy (or three) hooked to his arm. But when someone shows a speck of interest in me—or vice versa—everyone’s irrationally abuzz.
“No,” I say. “I’m here alone.”
“Oh.” Finn frowns. “I could’ve sworn I heard you were with a guy all weekend.”
“He’s just some guy I met. He leaves tomorrow.”
And wow, that feels really shitty to say.
Finn seems too frazzled to focus much on the nuance of my words, anyway. “I’m sweating my tushie off trying to keep everything running smoothly around here, and it looks like the guy who was helping me ran off. I hate to ask, but … ah … can you help me carry these boxes to the deep fryer outside?”
