gainst all odds, my mom didn’t do anything rash or stupid when I broke the news that her sister knew exactly who my father was. I could only conclude that she was saving that for after the pie-eating contest.

“The rules are simple.” A woman with a microphone was standing in front of a stage that had been erected near the tennis courts. “The first person to finish their pie wins. Of course”—she winked at the crowd—“there is one other tiny detail.” She held up what appeared to be a bunch of silk scarves. “Our contestants’ hands will be tied behind their backs!”

With quite a bit of further ado, the would-be pie-eaters had their hands bound. Pies were ceremoniously placed on the table in front of each of them. There were nine contestants total, eight of them male. The pies, from what I could see, appeared to be heavy on the whipped cream and/or meringue.

Lily was seated at the very end of the stage. Her posture was impeccable. Her hair had been pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck.

“On your mark…” the woman with the microphone said. “Get set…”

Lily bowed her head slightly, as if in prayer.

“Go!”

I expected Lily to hesitate, but she didn’t. She buried her face in that pie at a high enough velocity that pieces of meringue went flying. As she started chomping away, I realized that was the point. Her competitors were eating the pie with their mouths. Lily was quickly turning this into a whole face endeavor. She was eating the pie, but she was also demolishing it.

The important thing about a pie-eating contest, it turned out, was not so much eating the pie as it was making sure that your tin was empty first.

“Done!” Lily yelled, lifting her head. To her left, eight men ranging in age from their teens to their forties turned to stare at her. The judge walked over and examined Lily’s pie tin, which contained only faint traces of pie.

“It appears,” the woman said, casting a mildly horrified look at Lily, whose face, hair, and clothing were covered in pie bits, “that we have a winner.”

“Are you sure she’s Olivia’s?” my mom asked beside me. “Because that was really something.”

Up onstage, someone was handing Lily a towel. It took me a second to realize that the person in question was Walker.

He was laughing.

“Sawyer.” My mom nudged me. “Your phone.”

I made a concerted effort to stop watching Walker and Lily and turned my attention to my own text messages. In quick succession, I received three.

@) - -‘ - , - - -

~ ~ ~ ~ ~8<

Look to your left.

That didn’t seem like much of a challenge to me. Then I looked to my left. Through the slight crowd that the pie-eating contest had attracted, I saw someone milling on the outskirts.

Nick.

My phone buzzed again: a fourth text. Your challenge, should you choose to accept it: spend the afternoon with him.

Nick was wearing a navy swimsuit with a ratty red T-shirt. As I approached, he crossed his arms, the shirt pulling against his biceps and shoulders.

Not that I noticed.

“Hi,” I said. He didn’t say hello back, so I filled the silence. “I always wondered what a grudge personified would look like.”

That almost got a smile out of him. “You the reason I got invited to this thing?”

“That would be the secret society that’s trying to torture me with your presence.”

It felt good to be too honest with someone.

“You’re really not great with apologies,” Nick commented.

“I already apologized,” I replied. When he didn’t seem to know what I was talking about, I elaborated. “Via text.”

Texts that he hadn’t returned.

“I don’t text,” Nick said.

“You make phone calls,” I said, reading between the lines. “Like a civilized person.”

This time, the edges of his lips did tilt up, ever so slightly. “I didn’t come here to do this with you,” he said.

“And yet,” I replied, casting a look at the Fourth of July Wonderland all around us, “you still need the connections. And the reputation.”

He grimaced. “Damned debutante ball.”

I said what he hadn’t. “Damned debutantes.”

That seemed to penetrate, in a way that nothing else I’d said had. “I really did think you were different,” he told me quietly.

That hurt, but I didn’t let it sting for long. “What kind of person would I be if I prided myself on being different from other girls?”

He studied me for a moment—blatantly, intently. “I wasn’t talking about girls. I was talking about…” He looked around at the pockets of people all around us. The tennis and sand volleyball courts. The immaculate, sprawling lawn. “All of this.”

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” I asked him. “Being one of them?”

“I’m not.” His reply was immediate. The elaboration took longer. “And neither are you.”

And just like that, I was forgiven.

“Last time I saw you,” Nick said, “you were making noises about that body. What do they call her?”

“The Lady of the Lake,” I replied. “And FYI: referring to someone talking as ‘making noises’ doesn’t exactly endear you to the speaker.”

Nick tilted his head to the side. “Noted.”

I decided not to hold the word choice against him. “The body wasn’t who we thought it was. Whoever she was, we have no reason to believe that she was killed by an Ames.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Nick said dryly. Then he took in the look on my face. “Isn’t it?”

We ended up down on a nearby dock. I told him everything Lily and I had heard on John David’s recording. I waited for him to decide that I was more trouble and more drama than I was worth, that I was one of them in the worst possible way.

“Is there a reason,” he asked after a long silence, “that you tell me all of your secrets?”

I heard no judgment in his tone, but there was something in the way he was looking at me that I couldn’t put into words.

“Who are you going to tell?” I brushed off his question and looked out at the lake. The water in our cove was choppier than I’d ever seen it. Every once in a while, as we sat in silence, the waves hitting the dock sprayed the two of us.

“Did you ever come to the lake?” Nick was the one who broke the silence. “Before?”

“No,” I replied, thankful for the change in subject. “Did you?”

Nick let his feet dangle over the side of the dock. “When I was younger. One of Colt’s friends would borrow a car. There’s a camping area, close to the Macon Bridge. Even when it’s not a holiday weekend, the place is too crowded. Loud. Muddy as hell, if there’s been rain.”

The smile on his face made it clear. “You loved it.”

He looked down at the backs of his hands. “Colt did.”

That was the second time he’d said his name. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “About your brother.”

Nick locked his eyes on the horizon. “He’d be a hell of a lot better at this than me. The parties. Playing nice. Jessi.” I assumed that was his younger sister’s name, but didn’t get the chance to ask before he continued. “You.”

I should go. I felt that, like a warning siren going off in my brain. I wanted to say those words to him, but I couldn’t.

“You’re not doing so bad,” I said instead.

Nick turned his head toward mine. I tried to remind myself that he’d had weeks to get back in touch with me and hadn’t. That he hated the world I lived in and the people in it. That he’d been involved with Campbell before he ever met me.

That I didn’t want to want anything like this.

But all I could think about was my hands in his hair.

“Promise me,” Nick said, his voice rumbling and low, “that for the next ten seconds, you’re not going to say anything about dead bodies or fake pregnancies or anyone with the last name Ames.”

I felt my body listing toward his. My hands moved to his chest of their own volition. “I’ll give you seven,” I countered.

He brought his hands up to my fingertips, touching them lightly. He leaned forward, his lips stopping a fraction of an inch from mine, then moved his hands to the sides of my face. His fingers were rough and callused.

And warm.

“I can make seven work.” He grinned and closed his lips over mine.

I should have pulled back, but I didn’t. I shouldn’t have lost myself to it—to him—but I did. On some level, I was aware that I suddenly had his shirt fisted in my hands, that I wasn’t sitting next to him anymore, but on top of him.

His hands trailed down to my waist as he pulled back from the kiss. “Seven.”

My phone buzzed. I ignored the text, but it was followed by another and another. I looked down at my phone. Lily.

“Trouble in paradise?” Nick asked me.

I was on my feet before I’d even finished reading the message. “You don’t even know.”