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I blink at him. “It wasn't?”

“When was it built?” Mom asks.

Jordan hesitates, and I think he'll drink his champagne. Instead, he says, “Eight years ago.”

It's that new?I'd thought the place was beautiful, but knowing how recently it was made, that explained the immaculate condition.

My mom clears her throat. “I want to ask more, but first … I assume this lovely home has a restroom hiding somewhere.”

“There's one upstairs,” I say.

Jordan shakes his head. “Not that one. Just back that way,” he says, pointing on the other side of the staircase. “It's closer.”

“Thank you. I'll be right back.” She leaves her now empty glass on the counter—no wonder she has to pee—wriggling through the wall of people.

I stare at the room with a new wave of nerves. Some of them are looking at me. Faces I know, ones I don't … all a blurred lump, like someone took a painting then smeared Vaseline across it.

A bead of sweat rolls down my neck. My hands grip the edge of the counter, body hunching to handle the way my insides roll over each other. God, I'm so dizzy and weak.

“Are you okay?” Jordan puts his hand on my shoulder.

I flash him a toothy grin. “Yeah, it's nothing. I'm just getting claustrophobic from all these people.”

Jordan presses closer to me. “Let's go get some air.”

“Okay. That sounds nice.”

Together we squeeze out the backdoor. It's my first time seeing this section of the property. There are a few people scattered around, including the photographer; he's got the umbrella stands setup with the ocean as a backdrop. He keeps checking his camera, not noticing us.

To my right, in the shade of a small canopy, is another food table protected from the elements by netting. The lush grass merges with the cliffs that run along the side of the house.A steep turn reveals the wooden stairs that lead the way to the beach below.

I want to check it out—I take two steps before my knees crumble. “Lorikeet!” Jordan gasps, catching me before I hit the ground. He stabilizes me with an arm around my waist. The contact is too sudden, too hot, and I try to push him away.

“I'm fine,” I insist.

He clings tighter with a dour scowl. “You're not. You need to eat something.”

“What? No, I'm not hungry, this is just … the ground was loose under my shoe.”

“You haven't eaten all day.”

“How could possibly you know that?”

Jordan pulls me easily towards the table under the canopy. “I haven't taken my eyes off you all day, Lorikeet. I know.”

My eyes grow to their limit. But my heart? It keeps going. Jordan guides me—half carrying me—to the display of food. Brushing aside the netting we escape the afternoon sun. “I can stand on my own,” I tell him.

Ignoring me, Jordan reaches for one of the platters loaded with a variety of fruits layered together and lined up in rows to create something more art than meal. He rips a strawberry from the center, ruining the immaculate design. A few pieces of honeydew roll off in an avalanche. Jordan doesn't care what he's done. His focus is entirely on me.

“Eat this,” he says, bringing it under my nose. It smells sweet, but my stomach rattles warily.

I reach for it—he yanks it away. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Put your hands down.”

“What?”

“Do it.”