“I haven’t been here in three months. They might have something new on the menu.”

“You know they never do.”

“Shut up. I’m reading.”

I smiled, checking my phone while he searched the decade-old menu. Sterling’s family had a home down the road from ours, one of many around the country, left empty most of the year. I knew Sterling was my people when I saw him getting drunk, fourteen and alone, next to a tree beside our property line. He was just another trust fund baby—lamenting how hard life was with millions at his disposal but without an attentive family to anchor him to the real world.

Sterling had invested his entire worth in his father’s opinion of his success on any given day, and that made my friend somewhat moody. Sterling’s father, Jameson Wellington, changed his mind about his son’s significance regularly, depending on the stocks, the attitude of the board of directors, and if his wife was pissing him off that day.

“How did the party go?” Sterling asked without looking up.

“Oh. I meant to invite you. It was sort of impromptu.”

“I heard it was a bunch of locals.”

“Who else would I invite?”

“Me?”

“Finley isn’t home.”

Sterling glanced up at me for just a few seconds, and then returned his gaze to the menu. He wasn’t reading it anymore. “Don’t tell her about the kiss. I just did it because I owed you one.”

“I won’t. She’d hate me because whether she admits it or not … she loves you.”

“She does?”

I leaned in, annoyed. “You know she does.”

He seemed to relax.

“I invite you to parties all the time. I needed to … I needed something…”

“Uncomplicated?”

I pointed at him. “Exactly.”

“Ellison?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a terrible kisser. You’re probably doing that guy a favor.”

I glared at him. “Order your eggs-fucking-Benedict and shut your hole. I’m an excellent kisser. That is precisely why I had to scare that guy off with your slobber box.”

“Who are you fooling? You didn’t just kiss that guy.”

The waitress approached, wearing an olive and cream striped apron and a smile. “Hi, Ellie.”

“Chelsea, if you had to guess what Sterling was going to order—”

“Eggs Benedict,” Chelsea said without hesitation.

“Really?” Sterling asked, genuinely forlorn. “Am I that predictable?”

“Sorry,” Chelsea said, sheepish.

I sat back, handing Chelsea my menu. “I’m not judging you. Those are some damn good eggs.”

“Same?” she asked.

“No, I’ll have the Southwest omelet and some OJ. Do you have vodka? A screwdriver sounds great right about now.”

Chelsea wrinkled her nose. “It’s ten thirty in the morning.”

I stared at her, expectant.

“No,” Chelsea said. “We don’t sell liquor here.”

Sterling held up two fingers, ordering orange juice for himself.