Page 30

It was official: Charlie was a fool.

Not only because of his outfit, though that was enough to make anyone question his sanity.

Fringe looked great on Jean, but it made Charlie feel ridiculous.

Especially the thick white variety currently bristling from every seam of his clothing.

And he didn’t care what his mother said about “red” suiting his complexion.

This shirt was dark pink. A color better suited to a prom dress or raw meat.

Charlie would bet his hat (white, too tight, suspiciously shiny) that a real cowboy wouldn’t be caught dead in this thing.

It was too late to go back in time and tell his parents to choose a different theme. Not that they would have listened to him when apparently Smithson was the hero of the hour. Besides, there was a bigger worry circling his head like a swarm of gnats.

What if he’d already blown it? Instead of using their alone time to hopefully, maybe, walk things back to how they’d been before, Charlie had the distinct feeling he’d made Jean mad. Even more than she was to begin with.

Had he overplayed his hand? Tried to rush things? Jean once told Charlie he had a bad habit of telegraphing his move before he laid down a card. Should he have tried harder to bluff?

I have to change too , he could have said. Into a humiliating outfit I wish you weren’t going to see. Except I’d rather see you in the outfit than not see you at all. Unless we were both not wearing outfits, if you know what I mean.

Even imaginary Charlie was terrible at acting suave.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder and Charlie took a hopping leap sideways before turning. “Mugsy! Where have you been? You’re not going to believe what happened!”

“Someone got maimed in a freak square-dancing incident?”

“No! She’s here, Mugsy!”

“You know?”

It was a gratifyingly dramatic response, especially by Mugsy standards. Charlie had been afraid he’d need to convince her it was a big deal. “Yes! I saw her at the house.”

“She—oh. You mean Emma Koenig. She seems cool.”

Like a glacier, in Charlie’s humble opinion. Before he could explain that he wasn’t talking about Emma, they heard a loud, “Hey, hey!”

Smithson was strutting in their direction.

Mugsy sighed like she’d taken a sip of spoiled milk. “If he asks me to take a memo or fetch him a snack, there will be blood,” she warned.

“He’s bad news,” Charlie agreed. “Do you think we could get him to leave?”

Mugsy shook her head. “He’s so far up your dad’s butt he could count his fillings.”

Charlie shifted uneasily, and not just because of the disgusting image Mugsy had conjured. “Why is he looking at me like that?”

“Sizing you up,” Mugsy replied. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”

“Is this our guy?” The booming bray was worse at close range, especially when Smithson wrapped Charlie in a bone-crushing hug. “About time you got here, brother. You almost missed all the fun.”

He pulled back far enough to grasp Charlie’s hand.

“Smithson Oliver Barrett,” Charlie ground out.

“Been reading up on me, Chuck?” The pressure around Charlie’s knuckles increased. “I’ve been reading about you too.” His smugness was almost as potent as his cologne. “You and Adriana, huh?” He laughed like it was a punchline.

Mugsy made a noise, but Charlie didn’t need her to fight this battle for him. Grimly, he returned Smithson’s viselike handshake. Charlie knew a thing or two about constrictors and their prey.

“There’s Emma,” Mugsy said. “Let’s go say hi.”

Smithson released Charlie’s hand so fast it was all he could do not to stumble after him as he spun around. “Where?”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Too late.” Smithson took off without another word, pulling his shoulders back to make his chest stick out.

“I should rescue her,” Mugsy said, as they watched Smithson saunter up to Emma Koenig’s side. “Unless you want to?”

“I’m good,” Charlie said.

She frowned at him. “You sure? It’s not too much?”

“Nope,” he said, a little too quickly. “I’ll be fine over here,” he added, toning it down so Mugsy wouldn’t get suspicious. “The smoke bothers my contacts.”

That had been one of his father’s first requests.

Lose the specs, son . At least it gave him an excuse to sit over here, where he had a decent sight line to Jean’s wagon.

Charlie wanted to be sure he spotted her first. That way he could warn her about Smithson, apologize for costing her a job, keep Mr. Koenig from monopolizing her attention, and make sure she didn’t feel lonely. All very important and worthy tasks.

You just want to see her again, he admitted to himself.

It was hard to think about anything beyond that.

Distantly, Charlie understood that he should be wary of her motives, but all those things Mugsy said about Jean were like dusty mismatched socks tossed into the deepest darkness under the bed.

Charlie knew he should get down on the floor and try to fish them out, but it just didn’t feel like a priority.

There were other socks. Better socks. His favorite pair.

Because Jean must like him at least a little if she’d come all this way. That was Charlie’s working hypothesis: she was giving him a second chance. Everything else was a ball of dust in comparison.

“Where is the lovely Eve?” Mr. Koenig propped his boot on the hay bale Charlie was using as a lookout.

How was it fair that Mr. Koenig’s all-black western gear looked sleek and lived-in, like he was about to hold up a train, when according to Charlie’s father, the Koenigs were from Copenhagen?

“I’m sure she’ll be here.”

“Who could resist?” On that ambiguous note, the older man departed.

He was immediately swallowed by the crowd of multinational grown-ups dressed in some approximation of frontier wear, including the first suede pantsuit Charlie had ever seen.

Spicy-cocktail man was wearing two-tone denim, studded with metal rivets.

It looked like one of the machines had gone haywire in the jeans factory.

There was only one Jean who mattered to Charlie, and there she was, stepping out of her wagon. He watched her glide across the grass, still wearing the sparkly shoes he’d picked out for her. As she moved into the light from the campfire, his throat went dry.

That was some dress.

Two perfect semicircles had been cut from the fabric between her hip and rib cage, like the designer knew exactly where a person would put his hands if he wanted to pick her up and set her on a piece of furniture.

Or when he needed her to hold still for a few seconds because the sensations were too much, and he had to slow down to feel them all.

Her skin was bright as snow against the dark fabric, glowing in the flickering firelight. Charlie pressed the back of his fingers to his forehead. His face felt flushed despite the cool evening.

The musicians his parents had hired struck up an unfamiliar tune full of twanging banjos. They could have been playing “Happy Birthday” and he wouldn’t have recognized the melody.

“Jea—” he started to say, swallowing the rest of her name when she glared a warning. “I mean, gee, it’s nice to see you again, Eve .”

“I know.” She started to move past him.

“Could I talk to you about something?”

There was a pause before she answered. “I don’t know. Can you?”

Definitely a trick question. His eyes caught on Jean’s painted toenails, peeking out from under the thin strap of her fancy shoes. “It’s about the guest list.” Not this other thing you’re doing, he tried to telepathically convey . Or what happened before… between us .

He took a few steps away from the campfire and the dangling string lights, glancing back to see if she would follow. With a sigh, she joined him in the shadows, one dainty foot tapping with impatience.

“My parents hired a consultant. To help with the centennial and, um, branding.”

She waited for him to go on, the furrow of her brow saying, And?

“His name is Smithson. Smithson Oliver Barrett. His family is… also in the beer business.”

Jean spun around before he could gauge her reaction.

She stomped a few paces, keeping her back to the rest of the gathering.

It was hard to give her space when she looked so alone and small standing there.

What Charlie really wanted was to tiptoe over and give her a hug, but he knew how it felt to need time to put yourself back together.

Also a hug wasn’t something you should spring on a person stealthily, in the dark—unless you were playing naked hide-and-seek, which as far as Charlie knew was something Jean had invented. And that was more of an indoor game.

“A branding consultant,” she repeated, whipping around. “This was his idea? The cowboy schtick?” Jean looked Charlie up and down, as if noticing his outfit for the first time. Her mouth opened and then closed again, but at least she didn’t laugh.

“People from other countries tend to like that stuff.” Charlie wasn’t sure why he felt the need to be fair to someone like Smithson, who he would just as soon blame for all the world’s problems. “The hats and boots and all of that—”

“Rhinestone cowboy nonsense?”

Charlie nodded. That was about the size of it.

Jean started walking toward the cluster of people gathered around Smithson.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” She didn’t slow down.

“Okay.” He took bigger steps to keep pace with her, almost bumping into her when she suddenly rounded on him.

“You’re not going to tell me to stop and think?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.” Whatever happened next, he was sure Smithson deserved it. Jean squinted at him a moment longer before resuming her march. Charlie stayed half a step behind, ready to serve as her second-in-command.