“Her name is Trina,” Sterling called back. “She’s a local. We met her when we went to gas up the boat and decided to invite her along for the ride.”

Charlotte could feel Julia assessing the situation. The local girl was getting touchy-feely with Sterling, not Thomas—and certainly not J.D.

Charlotte wouldn’t let that be a big deal. She could be gracious. She could be beautiful.

She could be fun.

“Don’t worry,” Liv murmured beside her. “If she gives you any trouble, I’ll happily push her off the cliff.”

CHAPTER 36

Against all odds, my mom didn’t do anything rash or stupid when I broke the news that her sister knew exactly who my father was. I could only conclude that she was saving that for after the pie-eating contest.

“The rules are simple.” A woman with a microphone was standing in front of a stage that had been erected near the tennis courts. “The first person to finish their pie wins. Of course”—she winked at the crowd—“there is one other tiny detail.” She held up what appeared to be a bunch of silk scarves. “Our contestants’ hands will be tied behind their backs!”

With quite a bit of further ado, the would-be pie-eaters had their hands bound. Pies were ceremoniously placed on the table in front of each of them. There were nine contestants total, eight of them male. The pies, from what I could see, appeared to be heavy on the whipped cream and/or meringue.

Lily was seated at the very end of the stage. Her posture was impeccable. Her hair had been pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck.

“On your mark . . .” the woman with the microphone said. “Get set . . .”

Lily bowed her head slightly, as if in prayer.

“Go!”

I expected Lily to hesitate, but she didn’t. She buried her face in that pie at a high enough velocity that pieces of meringue went flying. As she started chomping away, I realized that was the point. Her competitors were eating the pie with their mouths. Lily was quickly turning this into a whole face endeavor. She was eating the pie, but she was also demolishing it.

The important thing about a pie-eating contest, it turned out, was not so much eating the pie as it was making sure that your tin was empty first.

“Done!” Lily yelled, lifting her head. To her left, eight men ranging in age from their teens to their forties turned to stare at her. The judge walked over and examined Lily’s pie tin, which contained only faint traces of pie.

“It appears,” the woman said, casting a mildly horrified look at Lily, whose face, hair, and clothing were covered in pie bits, “that we have a winner.”

“Are you sure she’s Olivia’s?” my mom asked beside me. “Because that was really something.”