Page 8 of Even Beneath the Stars

Just then, Blondie launches off the railing and executes a perfect backflip onto the sand, to even louder cheers from the crowd. For a guy his size, it’s shockingly graceful.

"I'm pretty sure Backflip Boy is Seb Murdoch," Laney tells me. "He’s been playing football at some fancy Maine boarding school for years, and now he's the talk of the town because he's back at SH Prep." She takes another long sip from her can. "The fact that he's probably gonna win the championship is apparently life altering."

"Well, I hope he does," I deadpan. "For the sake of his fragile self-esteem."

Laney snickers. “Yeah, poor dude.”

Seb high-fives his friends, his arrival sending an electric ripple through the party. Even kids from our school seem to be drawn to him.

Laney crushes her can. “I think he’s besties with Xavier Rockwell—the guy who pissed you off the other day.”

Ah, hell. And my night was going so well.

I feign indifference. "You're not gonna have another hot flash and collapse if he shows up, are you?"

"Ha. Ha." Laney smacks me lightly.

"Just checking. Gotta know if I should brush up on my CPR skills."

"No promises." She grins. "Maybe just fan me with a large fern leaf ifhe comes this way."

"If Xavier Rockwell comes this way, I will be heading in the opposite direction." No way I’m letting that chiseled cheesehead ruin my night.

And I succeed—until almost midnight, when I head over to the coolers to grab another White Claw. I've had a couple more than I usually drink at parties, but I'm doing okay. I'm tipsy but not messy drunk. Ineverget messy drunk.

I reach in for a drink when a familiar voice jolts me back to reality.

Xavier Fucking Rockwell.

"Question," he drawls. "These lobster pants, are they a formal occasion kind of thing? Or for kicking around the house? Or more like doing yard work when—"

"I said rich people wear them, remember?" I cut him off, straightening and opening my drink. "So, clearly not for yard work."

"Got it. Just tea parties and croquet on the front lawn then."

"And those rare occasions when you deign to lower your social standards to rowdy beach bonfire gatherings." I glance down the length of his body, which is still perfection, unfortunately, and therefore still a harsh contrast to his obnoxious personality. Then I make a point of glaring distastefully at his faded black jeans as if they're offensive in some way, and finish my sentence, "But you obviously totally missed the mark on that one so… better luck next time."

I’m still pissed about my probation, and since we’re not at the Welsford, I don’t have to hold back.

"Just so I’m clear…" He props a hip against the rock and takes a pull from his beer. "I missed the mark wearing jeans to a bonfire, and you nailed it with"—he waves a lazy hand over my outfit—"whatever this is."

I glance down at my royal blue flared cords, floral-print flowy top, and an eclectic mix of thrifted necklaces. "It’s called personality. Something you wouldn’t recognize if it smacked you in the face."

"Kind of like how unassuming and modesty are lost on you?"

"No," I deadpan. "That was just run-of-the mill honesty. Another trait you probably don't encounter a whole lot, given the way people trip over themselves to flatter your fragile ego," I say—because when lifegives you lemons, you make lemonade; when Xavier Rockwell gives you attitude, you throw the lemons at him.

He scoffs. "So, you're still totally condescending and prickly." He crushes his can and tosses it into the cooler. "I thought maybe I'd built it up in my head."

"Aw, you've been thinking about me, Lord Rockwell? I’m flattered."

He gestures at my outfit again. "Also, apparently, color blind."

Then he leans over me to grab another beer, his tall frame stretching out inches from my face. I catch a whiff of his cologne—subtle and woodsy—as his muscles flex under his shirt. He pops the can open with a satisfying hiss, taking a deep gulp. My eyes follow the rise and fall of his throat as he drinks, and I force myself to look away, irritated that I'm even noticing these things about Xavier Rockwell.God knows what Laney sees in this guy besides his looks. And the fact that he probably has en suite bathroom with those towels that are so fluffy they basically co-parent your inner child. And okay—also the fact that he presumably saysespressoright.

"Well, I see you've still got the personality of an overcooked noodle," I respond. "I thought maybe I'd built it up in my head."

He pauses with his beer halfway to his lips, the lower one fuller, slightly flushed. "Did you just call me anoodle?"

---