Blood money. I shouldn’t have been surprised that the Ames family had paid him off. The senator’s guilty plea would have opened them up to all kinds of liability on the accident that had put Nick’s brother in a coma—not to mention the cover-up.

“Davis Ames is not my grandfather.” Of all the ways I could have replied, that was the one that pushed its way past my lips without so much as a by-your-leave. In the past month, I’d thought a lot about what the revelation of my true parentage meant with respect to my relationship with Lily, with John David, with Campbell and Walker.

I hadn’t thought about what it might mean for my relationship—or lack thereof—with Nick.

I’m not related to the person who put your brother in that coma. That blood money? It has nothing to do with me.

“Right,” Nick replied tersely. “Forgive me for speaking an inconvenient truth.”

“The truth,” I said, my voice low and every muscle in my body tight, “is that my mom lied. I’m not an Ames.” I swallowed, and the only thing that let me continue was the fact that the noise level in this place was so high. “I’m an Easterling.”

Nick stared at me. For the first time since I’d recognized him standing behind the bar, I felt like he was really seeing me, and I reminded myself that when it came to the opposite sex, no good came of being seen.

“Easterling,” Nick repeated. “Isn’t that . . .”

My cousin’s last name.

Before Nick could press me further, Victoria reappeared. With one last, long look at me, he turned to her and nodded to the drinks he’d just made. “I’ll put these on your tab.”

Someone else came up to place an order then, and whatever had been brewing between Nick and me—if anything was—receded, like a boiling pot set back to simmer.

Like a dance where neither person said a word.

Good, I thought as he turned his back on me. It’s just as well. I didn’t come here to see him. I needed to focus on Victoria. I doubted I’d made much of an “impression” tonight. This might be my one and only White Glove soiree.

My only chance to ask, “Are you related to Ana Gutierrez?”

“Why all of this interest in my relatives?” Victoria retorted.

“Ana Sofía Gutierrez,” I reiterated. “She’d be in her thirties now. Your sister, maybe? Or a cousin?”

Before Victoria could reply—or decidedly not reply—someone pushed between the two of us, forcefully enough that I stood up from the stool I’d been sitting on.

“Where are my keys?” Frat Boy had returned. Based on his volume and tone, I had to wonder if he’d drunk the entire last round he’d purchased himself.

No way was Nick giving this guy back his keys.