You have worn shorts before, haven’t you?”
Grayson narrowed his eyes at Gigi. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Instead, he took in the scene around them. The Trowbridge abode had one of those modern, open floorplans. The only thing demarcating the foyer, dining room, kitchen, living room, and Great Room from one another was the decor. Overhead, a dozen teenagers leaned against a minimalist railing. At least three of them appeared to be trying to toss Ping-Pong balls over the railing and into plastic cups below.
Their aim was horrible.
A ball ricocheted by. Grayson didn’t even blink. Instead, he assessed the partygoers on the ground floor—and those he could see through glass doors leading out back to the pool. There were perhaps fifty or sixty teenagers here total. No adults.
Grayson let his gaze return to Gigi, who smiled impishly. “Can you dance?” she asked Grayson. “If I can’t sneak back to the private wing unassisted, I might need you to dance.”
“You will not need me to dance,” Grayson replied in a tone that very few people would have dared to question.
“My job is stealth,” Gigi told him seriously. “Yours is distraction. I believe in you, Grayson.” She flashed her phone’s screen at him. “And so does this cat.”
Gigi grinned, pocketed the phone, and then nodded toward a staircase in the back corner. The steps were made of glass, each one seemingly suspended midair. Savannah stood three steps down from the top. There
was a boy beside her and one step up. Clearly, the two of them were holding court.
“That’s Duncan,” Gigi murmured. “He has the personality of a bagel, but around here, people go for that.” Then, as if compelled to be fair to both Duncan and bagels, she continued, “He’s not bad. Just… boring. Expected.”
Grayson watched as the boy in question put an arm around Savannah’s waist. She didn’t stiffen, didn’t blink, didn’t give a single indication that she felt it at all. “And Savannah does what’s expected,” he noted. Give my regards to Girl Grayson! he could hear Xander saying.
“More or less,” Gigi replied. Without warning, she bounded off and returned a moment later holding an open bottle, which she promptly thrust into his hand. “Hold this. Try to look normal. And watch for my signal.”
Before he could ask What signal? she was gone. Grayson looked down at the bottle in his hand, which had a bright yellow label and appeared to be… alcoholic lemonade of some sort?
He looked back to the staircase, to Savannah—and she looked straight through him.
Grayson took a drink. Too sweet. He resisted the urge to make a face and returned to taking the measure of his surroundings: the people, the music, the place, all of it. While most of the furniture was clearly expensive, far too many of the pieces aimed to impress. The result fit the version of Kent Trowbridge that Grayson had seen the night before. Neither possessed any real finesse.
Moving through the party, Grayson kept his head down and his eyes open. He’d attended charity galas and business events, cocktail hours, professional sporting events, and the opening of the New York Stock Exchange.
He could handle one high school party.
“I haven’t seen you at one of these before.” A girl fell in next to him and smiled, and the next thing Grayson knew, he was surrounded by no fewer than three of her friends, all exits blocked.
“One of these… parties.” Grayson tried to sound normal. He took a very normal swig out of the bottle in his hand. Still too sweet.
“If you went to Carrington Hall or Bishop Caffrey,” the girl said coyly, “I’d know.”
“I’m just visiting.” Grayson gave up on attempting to seem normal and
gave her a very Hawthorne look. “And I’m too old for you.”
“I knew it!” one of the other girls declared. “See! I told you all.” She grinned at Grayson. “You’re Grayson Hawthorne.”
Grayson didn’t bat an eye. “No, I’m not.”
“You totally are!” Still grinning, the girl turned to her friends. “He totally is.”
“I am so sorry that Avery girl took all of your money,” one of the others said seriously.
“And chose your brother,” another one added. “And broke your heart!”
“But not your spirit.” The bravest of the girls reached out and laid a hand on his arm.
Grayson found himself wishing he had a suit jacket to button or sleeves to cuff. Now would be a good time for that signal, he told Gigi silently—to no avail. “Avery didn’t take anything,” he said stiffly. “And she didn’t—”
“You don’t have to talk about it,” one of the girls assured him. “Can I get a picture?”
Grayson set his jaw. “I would prefer that you did—” Not. He didn’t even get a chance to say the last word before she squeezed in next to him.
“One more!” “Smile!”
“This is unreal!”
“Can I get you another… hard lemonade, Grayson?”
He was going to kill Gigi. For all he knew, she was already searching Kent Trowbridge’s office while he served as distraction just by existing.
“Who are you here with?”
This time, Grayson summoned up a response. “Friends of the family.” He looked back toward the staircase, where Savannah and the Trowbridge boy were still holding court.
“Oh,” one of the girls said flatly. “Her.”
“It’s a good thing we saved you, then,” another declared.
Grayson arched a brow. “And why,” he asked crisply, “is that?”
“Savannah Grayson thinks she’s so much better than everyone else.”
“I mean, look at what she’s wearing. This isn’t brunch at the country club.”
“And the heels—she’s already, like, six feet tall!”
“And the way she just expects to win, to get everything.”
“She’s such a bitch! I’m surprised Duncan hasn’t gotten frostbite.”
“That’s enough.” Grayson didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. And still, not a single one of them looked at him the way they’d looked at her.
“Friiiiiigiiiiiiiid.” A guy joined them. He’d apparently been close enough to hear the topic of their conversation, but not close enough to realize that he was, in fact, taking his life in his own hands with that comment.
Grayson took a single step forward, and then Gigi appeared at his side. “This wasn’t what I meant,” she whispered, as a vein pulsed in Grayson’s temple, “when I said dance.”
