Page 44 of Well That Happened

I listen. Let her talk. School’s overwhelming. Mom and Dad are being useless. Her best friend ditched her for a guy who sucks.

I wait until she runs out of breath and say the only thing that ever works.

“You’re not too much, Sierra. You’re just around people who aren’t enough.”

She sniffles. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

We talk for ten more minutes. I promise to text her every morning this week—even if it’s just something dumb to make her laugh.

By the time I hang up, the decorations are done, and Rilee’s gone upstairs.

So I head to my room, pull on my costume—a vintage western shirt (strategically unbuttoned), tight black jeans, a leather holster belt I found at a thrift store, and yes, the dumb orange cowboy hat. If I’m going slutty cowboy, I’mcommitting.

When I come back out, a few early arrivals are already in the living room. Someone’s brought a tray of Jell-O shots. Hunter’s by the Bluetooth speakers, pretending not to care. Grayson’s leaning against the wall, sipping something dark and not looking at anyone.

I scan the room.

No Rilee.

Until I turn toward the stairs.

And see her.

Black leather corset. Fishnets. Heels that should be illegal. Cat ears. Red lipstick that makes my brain short-circuit.

She walks down the stairs slowly, like she doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me.

But she does.

God, shedoes.

I forget my name.

Forget the party.

Forget everything but the fact that I might actually be in trouble here.

Big, can’t-look-away kind of trouble.

I’m still standing at the base of the stairs like an idiot when Rilee hits the last step.

“Hey,” I manage, brain trying to reboot.

She smiles—and damn if it doesn’t make everything worse. It’s the kind of smile that lights a fuse. The kind that says she knowsexactlywhat she’s doing and is still daring you to look anyway.

“Nice hat, cowboy,” she says, brushing past me with a flick of her ponytail.

I turn to follow her, heart thudding.

“Can I get you a drink?” I ask, catching up beside her as she slips through the crowd.

“Something that doesn’t glow in the dark,” she says. “I don’t trust beverages that look like highlighters.”

“Good rule.” I grin. “Be right back.”

The kitchen’s packed, but I manage to pour two drinks—one for her, one for me—and weave back through a sea of costumed chaos.

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