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Chapter Tw o

Maggie

T he sand beneath my feet is still warm from the day's sun as I follow Laney down the rickety wooden stairs to Halicina Cove. The rhythmic crash of waves mingles with laughter and music drifting up from the beach.

"Welcome to your first Sandy Haven bonfire." Laney grins, gesturing dramatically as we reach the sand.

The cove is alive with energy. Flames from a massive bonfire lick the night sky, casting a warm glow over the crowd of teens scattered across the sand. Some huddle near the fire, others lounge on driftwood logs or dance to music blaring from a portable speaker.

"Laney! Maggie!" Liam jogs over, grinning. "You made it!"

Something about him looks different, and then it hits me—he’s wearing a shirt. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in anything other than board shorts. He still looks like a total surfer dude, though, in a faded Rip-Curl tee and too-long jeans.

Liam introduces us to his friends, and we chat for a while before drifting through the crowd, eventually linking up with Laney’s crew.

As the night wears on, I find myself relaxing. Her friends are warm and welcoming, cracking jokes and sharing stories—nothing like the snobs I’d assumed made up most of Sandy Haven. With the town’s reputation, I was worried I would be one of ten non-millionaire teens in the entire area.

A little while later, as we're just getting ready to make s'mores, huge whoops and cheers break out from the area near the base of the rickety stairs that lead down to the beach. I crane my neck in time to see a gorgeous blond guy in a backward ball cap sprinting down the bannister.

"SH Prep kids are here," Laney says, nodding toward the stairs.

"That's the private school, right?"

“Yeah." She takes a sip of her strawberry cooler. "Usually, there isn't a whole lot of mixing between SH Prep and Ocean Heights at parties and stuff. Except the first bonfire of the summer and the last one. And maybe a couple in between."

Just then, Blondie launches off the railing and executes a perfect backflip onto the sand, to even louder cheers from the crowd. For a guy his size, it’s shockingly graceful.

"I'm pretty sure Backflip Boy is Seb Murdoch," Laney tells me. "He’s been playing football at some fancy Maine boarding school for years, and now he's the talk of the town because he's back at SH Prep." She takes another long sip from her can. "The fact that he's probably gonna win the championship is apparently life altering."

"Well, I hope he does," I deadpan. "For the sake of his fragile self-esteem."

Laney snickers. “Yeah, poor dude.”

Seb high-fives his friends, his arrival sending an electric ripple through the party. Even kids from our school seem to be drawn to him.

Laney crushes her can. “I think he’s besties with Xavier Rockwell—the guy who pissed you off the other day.”

Ah, hell. And my night was going so well.

I feign indifference. "You're not gonna have another hot flash and collapse if he shows up, are you?"

"Ha. Ha." Laney smacks me lightly.

"Just checking. Gotta know if I should brush up on my CPR skills."

"No promises." She grins. "Maybe just fan me with a large fern leaf if he comes this way."

"If Xavier Rockwell comes this way, I will be heading in the opposite direction." No way I’m letting that chiseled cheesehead ruin my night.

And I succeed—until almost midnight, when I head over to the coolers to grab another White Claw. I've had a couple more than I usually drink at parties, but I'm doing okay. I'm tipsy but not messy drunk. I never get messy drunk.

I reach in for a drink when a familiar voice jolts me back to reality.

Xavier Fucking Rockwell.

"Question," he drawls. "These lobster pants, are they a formal occasion kind of thing? Or for kicking around the house? Or more like doing yard work when—"

"I said rich people wear them, remember?" I cut him off, straightening and opening my drink. "So, clearly not for yard work."

"Got it. Just tea parties and croquet on the front lawn then."

"And those rare occasions when you deign to lower your social standards to rowdy beach bonfire gatherings." I glance down the length of his body, which is still perfection, unfortunately, and therefore still a harsh contrast to his obnoxious personality. Then I make a point of glaring distastefully at his faded black jeans as if they're offensive in some way, and finish my sentence, "But you obviously totally missed the mark on that one so… better luck next time."

I’m still pissed about my probation, and since we’re not at the Welsford, I don’t have to hold back.

"Just so I’m clear…" He props a hip against the rock and takes a pull from his beer. "I missed the mark wearing jeans to a bonfire, and you nailed it with"—he waves a lazy hand over my outfit—"whatever this is."

I glance down at my royal blue flared cords, floral-print flowy top, and an eclectic mix of thrifted necklaces. "It’s called personality. Something you wouldn’t recognize if it smacked you in the face."

"Kind of like how unassuming and modesty are lost on you?"

"No," I deadpan. "That was just run-of-the mill honesty. Another trait you probably don't encounter a whole lot, given the way people trip over themselves to flatter your fragile ego," I say—because when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade; when Xavier Rockwell gives you attitude, you throw the lemons at him.

He scoffs. "So, you're still totally condescending and prickly." He crushes his can and tosses it into the cooler. "I thought maybe I'd built it up in my head."

"Aw, you've been thinking about me, Lord Rockwell? I’m flattered."

He gestures at my outfit again. "Also, apparently, color blind."

Then he leans over me to grab another beer, his tall frame stretching out inches from my face. I catch a whiff of his cologne—subtle and woodsy—as his muscles flex under his shirt. He pops the can open with a satisfying hiss, taking a deep gulp. My eyes follow the rise and fall of his throat as he drinks, and I force myself to look away, irritated that I'm even noticing these things about Xavier Rockwell.God knows what Laney sees in this guy besides his looks. And the fact that he probably has en suite bathroom with those towels that are so fluffy they basically co-parent your inner child. And okay—also the fact that he presumably says espresso right.

"Well, I see you've still got the personality of an overcooked noodle," I respond. "I thought maybe I'd built it up in my head."

He pauses with his beer halfway to his lips, the lower one fuller, slightly flushed. "Did you just call me a noodle? "

"Don't forget the 'over-cooked' part," I clarify. "I think it's an important qualifier in this instance."

His eyebrows shoot up. Is it possible I just rendered the King of Cool speechless?

Only I'll never know, because at that moment, a perky squeal shatters the air.

"Xave! Oh my God, I thought I lost you!"

A dewy-faced girl with thick brown waves bounces up and slings an arm around his broad shoulders, snuggling into his chest.

"One can only dream," I mutter, and the girl eyes me curiously as Xavier coils his arm around her bare midriff.

"Victoria’s making shots," she purrs. "You coming?"

"Yeah, sure," he says, eyes still on me.

I flash him a syrupy smile. "Aw, leaving so soon?"

He ignores me, turning to his admirer instead. "Seb with you guys?"

"Uh, I think he wandered off with Scarlett a while ago."

Xavier nods, then tosses a final parting shot over his shoulder. "A pleasure, as always, Lobster Girl."

God. So weak. Doesn’t he get he can’t insult me with the lobster thing when I made the reference about him?

Amateur.

"Careful not to trip over your ego on your way to the bonfire!" I call after him. "Wouldn't want you falling in and messing up that pretty face."

I think I hear him chuckle. Which pisses me off even more.

As the night wears on and I start to sober up, a new thought dawns on me: just because we’re not at the Welsford doesn’t mean Xavier couldn’t use tonight’s exchange as an excuse to go to his father about the Kid’s Club incident. Heck, he could even make something up and it would be his word against mine.

Xavier Rockwell may very well have just had the last laugh.

And I may have just let a couple too many White Claws seal my fate.