Rowan looked at the players on either side of the court. “Federer for sure,” she decided. “Djokovic is too cocky.”
“Tall, dark, and European. I like it.” James tilted his head down, his expression mock-serious. “So tell me: Who do you have on tap these days?”
Rowan pretended to rub out an invisible water spot from the sink. “I plead the Fifth. I’ve already been asked that question a few too many times today.”
James sank down to the edge of the tub. “You have to give people a chance, Saybrook. Actually go out with someone more than once.”
“I go out,” Rowan insisted.
“I know you do.” James laid his hands in his lap. “But who have you actually liked?”
Rowan stared intensely at the TV screen, trying to recall the last time she’d gone out with someone consistently. Someone she’d actually felt something for.
“See? You can’t even remember.” James playfully nudged her calf with his toe. “They can’t all be like me, you know,” he said, spreading his arms wide and giving her a boyish grin.
Rowan froze. He was kidding, wasn’t he? Her pulse thudded in her palms.
Five years ago, when they were at SoHa just before finals, James had taken a deep breath and looked at Rowan over his beer. “So, Saybrook. I was thinking about checking out this Meriweather place you always talk about.”
“Oh?” Rowan cocked her head. “Do you want to visit? There’s room.”
“Actually . . .” James fiddled with the straw in his drink. “I rented a place on Martha’s Vineyard. For the whole summer.”
“What?” Rowan blurted.
James’s gaze bored into her. “Yeah, I was thinking it would be nice to hang out together outside the library or dive bars.”
His eyes and smile were so damn dangerous, instantly sucking her in. But Rowan knew what he was like. She’d seen him work his magic on other women. And yet when he looked at her, she was just as weak as all the rest. That night, when she went home, she fantasized about the shape their summer would take. The meals they’d cook, the things they’d talk about, the family members he’d meet. And then . . . what? After hours and hours of talking and laughing, in that beautiful setting, with the stars twinkling all around them, what would happen next?
She knew it wasn’t wise to think that way. She was being naive, one of the many pitiful girls who fell under James’s spell. She was afraid of her feelings for James, mostly because of how strong they were. But there was such a big if. If James felt the same way, well . . .
She’d thrown him a party the night he arrived. All the cousins, even Natasha, lined up in the foyer to greet him. Poppy strode up first and extended her hand. “Rowan has told me so much about you,” she gushed. “I’m her cousin, Poppy Saybrook.”
“Another Saybrook,” James had said, smiling that wolfish smile, his eyes skimming her up and down. It was the same thing he’d done to countless girls in Rowan’s presence, but something inside Rowan still lurched. He wasn’t supposed to do that here, to her cousin.
That night James gave a toast on the patio, thanking everyone for giving him such a warm welcome, especially his “best friend, Saybrook.” Every time she turned around, he was chatting with Poppy, and soon she realized that he wasn’t just being polite. Rowan had to duck behind the bar that had been set up on the edge of the patio to collect herself, feeling that infrequent hot sting behind her eyes. She felt so blindsided. And stupid. To make matters worse, she felt someone staring at her from the other side of the yard. It was Natasha. Her gaze slid from Rowan to Poppy and James—as if she had it all figured out.
Knowing she was going to lose it, Rowan had retreated to a bedroom, sat down on the bed, and stared at the diamond-printed wallpaper, seeking refuge—much as she was now, in James and Poppy’s powder room.
Blinking the memory away, Rowan turned to James and tsked. “If you keep saying things like that, I’m going to have to hide from you too.” She opened the door. “C’mon. We’d better join the royal court.”
The party had moved into the dining room. Streamers and glittering tiaras surrounded the tiered buttercream-frosting cake on the table. Corinne’s mother was placing three little candles in the center, and all the young mothers stood around, oohing and ahhing. Aster had finally appeared, looking tired but still managing a smile. Rowan looked around for Poppy and found her standing in the corner with Mason. Mason’s face was red, and Poppy’s mouth drawn. Rowan had never seen them argue—since Poppy’s parents died, Mason had taken her under his wing, much as Candace and Patrick had, treating her like a third daughter.