It was magical.
Kennedy wanted to touch everything, explore every corner. Maybe there was a treasure map up here. Or, even better, ghosts! Maybe they could have a séance and speak to them.
Brent watched Kennedy’s mouth go round in wonder. He’d known she’d love it. She wasn’t like any other girl he knew. She didn’t burst into tears if her shoes got muddy, like his cousin Charlotte did. She didn’t scream if she saw a spider, like her sister, Claire, did. She hated her daily violin lessons, and never worried about tearing her dress while climbing a tree. Kennedy was an adventurer. She wanted to run and go, to see and do.
And like him, she was fearless.
He glanced at the ladder that led up to the loft. “Come on, it’s going to start soon. We’ll come back here tomorrow.”
She was still gazing around the massive attic as she nodded. “All right.”
Kennedy went up the ladder first. She was small for her age and Brent was big, so he could catch her if her foot slipped. In the ceiling of the loft there was an access door, and Brent pushed it open and hoisted himself through, then reached down his hand to Kennedy. Up she went, and the two nine-year-olds found themselves on the flat peak of the roof of Mason Castle.
The sky was a black blanket above them, filled with infinite stars, so big and bright, Kennedy felt like she could reach out and pluck one from the night. She turned in a circle, her blond hair fanning out as she gazed toward the heavens. “You were right—this is the best!”
Brent grinned, then grabbed Kennedy’s hand when she got too close to the edge, where the roof sloped steeply, with nothing to stop her from sliding right off. “Watch out!”
He led her to the end, near one of the five chimneys, and they sat down close to each other; it was very cold. When Kennedy’s teeth started to chatter, Brent put his arm around her, and she snuggled into his warmth. They could hear the tinkling of champagne flutes, the hum of conversation and laughter from the guests far below them. As they waited, they talked.
“. . . so they let me quit fencing and start lacrosse instead. It’s awesome.”
“You’re so lucky!” Kennedy cried. “Mother said I couldn’t stop ballet even if my leg was broken. She said I’m going to marry a prince, and no prince wants a princess who doesn’t know how to dance.”
Music floated up from the band downstairs, and Kennedy wondered if her sister was dancing. “Claire likes your cousin Louis. She said she’s going to kiss him at midnight.”
Brent’s nose wrinkled. “Why?”
That’s what Kennedy had asked, interrupting her sister’s conversation with Brent’s sixteen-year-old cousin, Katherine.
“She said that’s what you do at midnight. Kiss the boy you like.”
Claire had also confessed her hope that Louis would be her escort to the debutante ball in Paris in the spring. She’d said a kiss at midnight on New Year’s Eve was something special—something a boy wouldn’t forget.
Then a chorus of voices surged from the veranda below. “10, 9, 8 . . .”
Kennedy stared up at Brent’s profile. He was as handsome as any hero in a storybook. And he was brave and kind and noble, as any prince should be.
“. . . 4, 3, 2, 1 . . .”
The band began “Auld Lang Syne” as the sky exploded in color above their heads. Bursts of reds and blues, slashes of silvery purples, and swaths of sparkling greens lit up the night and reflected on the river’s surface. Kennedy and Brent’s upturned faces glowed with the changing colors in the sky, and then Kennedy turned her head, leaned up, and kissed his cheek.
He looked at her with surprise.
“Happy New Year, Brent.”
He smiled.
“Happy New Year, Kennedy.”
? ? ?
There was no New Year’s Eve party at Mason Castle the following year, or the year after that. Tragedy came to visit to the nine-year-old-boy that summer. Though their family homes bordered each other’s, Kennedy and Brent didn’t really see each other again for three long years.
And when they did, everything was different.
Chapter 1
23 years later
You rotten bastard!”
She sits up and stares at me like she doesn’t recognize me. No—like she’s never met me at all. Which is pretty weird, considering we’re both bare-ass naked in my bed. Every inch of us is intimately acquainted.
But it’s the tone of her voice that bothers me most—flat with tightly controlled anger and breathy with pain. Like I stole the air from her lungs—like I punched her in the stomach.
The words don’t worry me. Insults are our flirting. Arguing is our foreplay. One time, she was so worked up, she hauled off and took a swing at me, and my reaction was a boner that wouldn’t be denied.
It’s not as twisted as it sounds. It works for us.
At least it did up until ten seconds ago.
“Wait. What?” I ask, genuinely surprised.