Page 124 of Even in the Dark

Her eyes bulge and her cheeks flush. She whips around to face the other way. "OhmyGod, you are so dead," she gasps.

"Just tell them to stop leaving so many voicemails," I call even louder, still backing away, thoroughly enjoying myself. "I mean—God. Stalkers much?"

Laney makes this soft noise that sounds a lot like mewling as she pretends to be fascinated with the grain pattern of the picnic table.

I giggle, swivelling on one heel, then swing my arms as I make my way over to the clubhouse. Xavier glances up as I approach, raking a hand through his thick waves.

Lifting a hand in greeting, I get one of those effortless guy chin thrusts in response. Then I skip up onto the covered veranda and duck into the front office.

"Hey there," I chime, lifting my arms to twist my hair into a messy bun.

Xavier’s liquid-gold eyes track the movement, lingering for a second, like he’s trying to decide what to make of the bubblegum pink color I dyed it a couple of weeks ago.

"Hi," he says in a voice that is both confident and totally chill. The kind of voice that probably makes customer service agents waive cancellation fees. And is it possible for a smile to be lazy?

He peers past me, out the wall of open windows. "Uh, is your friend okay?"

I stifle a laugh. He must've seen her freaking out a second ago.

I glance back just in time to see her whip around, face in her hands. Probably red as a tomato right now.

Well, actually she was overcome with a fit of vapors at the mere sight of your approach, Xavier Rockwell.

I shrug. "She's fine. Just… Boy trouble."

He nods, slipping his hands into the pockets of his navy board shorts. "I'm here to pick up my brother."

Then, as if I don’t already know exactly who he is—who his entire family is—he adds, "Finn. Rockwell."

So far, he hasn't acted at all like the douche canoe I expected him to be. Which is… weird, given everything I now know about his background. Still, it's been maybe two minutes. Give him time.

"Sure, hang on." I shuffle through the desk clutter—papers, glue sticks, a half-empty pack of toddler pull-ups—searching for the sign-out binder.

"I think you have your t-shirt on inside out."

I pause, glancing down at my Welsford-issued staff polo. "Yeah, that’s on purpose. It looks marginally less hideous this way." I point to the seam along one of the arms. "Because of the contrasting green stitching," I explain.

He squints his gorgeous eyes a little. "Oh," he says. "Sorry." Clearly still baffled.

"Don't be. I didn't choose this polyester monstrosity."

I finally locate the pick-up binder, flipping to Finn's name. But when I check the authorized pick-up list, Xavier’s name isn’t there. "Shoot," I say, looking up. "You’re not listed… I'm really sorry, but I can't let him go with you."

His expression barely changes, but something shifts in his posture. "Pick-up form?" His thumb drags along his lower lip. "I’m his brother."

I explain the club’s strict security policies—high-profile families, safety first, no exceptions—but Xavier just arches both brows.

"Are you serious right now?"

'Not as serious as these parents are about safety' I want to say. Between the cameras and literal security guard watching the kids' area, the Welsford is basically a baby Fort Knox. I don't pass on my opinion about this, though, given that his family is presumably among those who demand this level of service.

I give him my best apologetic smile instead. "I'm really sorry. You can maybe ask your mother to add you to the list next time she’s in?"

"I’m not going to ask my—" He exhales sharply. "Jesus. This is ridiculous." He rakes a tanned hand through his hair, and it flops right back over his forehead. "So who is on this exclusive list?"

Ah. There's the douche-bag entitled attitude I was waiting for.

"His nanny, Leslie," I say, knowing she’s picked him up all week.

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