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“You two kill me,” Dixie huffs. “Making everybody wonder, ‘Will they or won’t they?’ is totally the point of wearing a triangle top.”
Cars are parked bumper to bumper in the driveway next door. The steady beat of music beneath the ebb and flow of conversation confirm we’re not too early. Both grow a little louder when Vaughn opens the front door.
“Hello, Birthday Boy,” Dixie says, handing him the bottle of tequila.
He hears her, because he takes the alcohol, but his eyes are locked with mine. “Happy birthday,” I say, then realize that damn it, I forgot his present. I’m about to tell him I’ll be right back, but the way he’s looking at me makes all my limbs forget how to work, and I’m frozen to my spot. Amber rescues me by murmuring, “Happy birthday from me, too,” and handing him a small wrapped box she produces from a pocket of her overalls. “It’s a Jayhawks bottle stopper. In case you have leftover tequila.”
“Thanks.” He spares a quick glance at my sisters. Then, with his eyes back on me, says, “Come on in.”
Dixie goes first, and then Amber, because I’m still kind of stuck, but finally my feet get the memo and I step inside Vaughn’s house for the first time. It’s sleek and modern. Definitely some designer’s idea of a bachelor pad, but not a reflection of Vaughn’s personality if you ask me. I have this sudden flash of Becca standing by the low-slung leather sofa in some Armani/Casa showroom, saying, “This would be perfect for the living area.”
“Dix!” Dylan calls from a slider leading outside. “Get that sweet ass of yours out here and tell me what you think of my peach daiquiri. You too, Ginger.”
“Ginger?” Amber questions. “Since when am I Ginger?”
Dixie rolls her eyes. “Since birth. Come on.” She takes Amber’s arm and heads toward the epicenter of the party. It looks like a big crowd—heavy on the X chromosome—is on the back patio.
Vaughn leans forward to say something in my ear, but the doorbell rings and he pulls back. He hesitates for a second like he’s considering making a run for it and having whoever is at the door let themselves in, but his hosting duties kick in. “Give me a minute?”
I nod. He can have all my minutes.
The group of new arrivals looks like High School Musical the College Years, and Vaughn is quickly swept up into their momentum. He tosses me an apologetic glance and a one-more-minute signal with his index finger as he’s led away. I wave my arm to let him know it’s okay. It is his birthday party, after all.
Left on my own, I’m tempted to keep to myself and take a look around. I’m given no such luck when Dylan pops back into the house, notices me still in the entryway, and shouts, “Kendall! We’ve run dry. Bring your sexy self over here and help me make another pitcher.”
I laugh. He waits until I’m in motion, as if he knows better than to trust me, before he s
teps away. I come upon the kitchen to find him grabbing a bowl of fresh peaches. He tosses his free arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go, babe, you’re up next.”
We step outside onto a large redwood deck. The sun is low in a violet-crimson sky, but the air is warm and summery. Dylan keeps hold of me until we reach a built-in bar with a blue-flecked granite countertop. “This is Kendall,” he says to the friends gathered there.
“Hi.” I give a quick wave. “Hellos” ring out in return.
The blender whirrs, and a minute later I’m handed a glass filled to the rim. Dylan says, “Here. Tell me that’s not the best damn daiquiri you’ve ever tasted.”
“I’m sure it’s great. It’s just that—”
“Come on, Midwest. It’s Vaughn’s birthday. You accepted the invite, which means you’re duty bound to celebrate.”
Even without hours of mandatory alcohol awareness classes under my belt, I’d recognize peer pressure, but it doesn’t mean he’s not right in his own convoluted way. This is Vaughn’s day, and I am here to participate in the festivities. We’re all adults, drinking at a party is a social norm, and I’m not driving. I can relax and enjoy a cocktail if I want.
“Cheers,” I say and lift my glass.
The first thick, icy sip slides down my throat easily. It’s sweet and tangy but super strong. I’ll need to pace myself so I don’t feel like I can’t handle this.
“How’d I do?” Dylan says, grabbing a redhead walking by and bringing her under his arm. She giggles and snuggles against him.
“It’s good,” I tell him, but I don’t think he hears me. He’s got his tongue down the girl’s throat.
“Hey,” Vaughn says, coming up beside me. My body immediately relaxes and leans toward him. “Sorry about ditching you. I see you’ve got a drink.”
“I do,” I answer with confidence I don’t entirely feel, but I want him to know I’m okay indulging in Dylan’s specialty.
As if on cue, Dylan hands Vaughn a glass. How he poured while his mouth is still attached to the girl at his side, I don’t know.
“Come on.” Vaughn takes my hand—sending a ridiculous amount of pleasure through me—and leads me to a sitting area where several party guests are lounging on a semi-circular sectional. Vaughn sits and tugs me onto his lap even though there’s an available spot next to him.
He flashes a smile that is so beautiful my heart stops.
