Page 23 of Before We Were

"Okay, I'll come find you in a bit. Try to have some fun, yeah?" he says, playfully tapping my nose like when we were kids.

I watch Jake move through the crowd with enviable ease, unaffected by the whispers and glances that follow him. Meanwhile, I'm dodging spilled drinks and overeager partiers, feeling like a fish swimming upstream.

The party pulses with increasing intensity as more bodies pour in, until the mansion seems to breathe with their collective energy. Tables once decorated with family photos now host drinking games and lines of white powder. The music pounds through my bones, making thought itself difficult.

I keep my head down, trying to navigate the chaos, when I collide with what feels like a brick wall.

"Shit, sorry," I mutter.

"Holy shit, is that you, Lenora Wells?" A husky voice cuts through the noise, and I look up into Connor James's face.

Connor James—Ivy League royalty personified. Since I last saw him, the boy has evolved into something more dangerous: sharp jawline, carefully disheveled hair, shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at a sculpted torso. His charm still radiates like a gravitational field.

"Connor. Hey," I say, the words feeling artificial on my tongue.

"Damn, Wells. You aged up nicely."

I force a smile, swallowing my discomfort. "Thanks. You, uh, same.” I gesture vaguely at his torso, earning a laugh that sounds practiced.

"I didn't expect to see you here."

"That makes two of us," I murmur.

"Sullivan let you out on your own for once, huh?" The comment stings with its implications.

"I'm here with Jake."

"Oh yeah? Where is the little guy?" His condescension hasn't changed since I last knew him.

"He's around."

"And he's left you out here all alone?"

"Are you under the impression I can't fend for myself?"

"No, I didn't mean—uh." He runs his fingers through his hair, flustered. "I just meant??—"

"I'm pulling your leg. Relax."

He flashes that practiced smile again. "You're pretty funny. And pretty in general, too."

I suppress an eye roll and pretend to sip my drink.

"You do not look like you're enjoying that."

"Does anyone actually enjoy drinking?" My rhetorical question draws another calculated laugh.

"What are you, sixteen going on sixty?"

"May as well be." My eyes continue scanning the crowd for a specific face.

"Do you want to go somewhere quieter?" he suggests, leaning closer.

"Go somewhere?"

"It's just really loud in here, and I don't want to be yelling all night."

"What makes you think I want to talk to you all night?"

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