“I told you. He’s stuck around. Like a bug on fly paper.”

Bea snorts. “That might be the closest thing to an insult I’ve ever heard you say.”

I smile up at her, relieved to see there’s no judgment in her eyes that I have virtually no social life. “I’d like friends,” I admit, because she’s made me feel safe to say it. “I just haven’t ever really known where to start.”

Her smile’s soft and warm. “I think you start here.”

A crash makes Bea startle on my lap and nearly spill her sangria all over us.

“Close call,” she says shakily, setting down her glass.

I glance over my shoulder to the source of the noise, where Rowan toddles across the room and plows down the Pictionary easel again.

“Bea,” I mutter, hoisting her closer in my lap.

She turns and faces me, our mouths scant inches apart. Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “What is it?”

“Pictionary? Must we?”

“Jamie. You remember how I was at bowling.”

My hand slides down the swell of her hip, to the line of her panties beneath her dress. “How could I forget?”

She pokes my side. “I don’t mean the panty fiasco. I mean the game. My deranged competitiveness. I like to win, that’s what I was trying to get at. And I will win at Pictionary.”

“But, Bea, how is that possible when I can’t draw a stick figure? I’m even terrible at coloring.”

“How can you be terrible at coloring?”

“I just am.”

She smooths the collar of my dress shirt, her eyes traveling me. My body feels so hot, I’d swear I’m fevered. Bea sitting on my lap, nestled in, touching me affectionately, is testing my limits. “We’ll figure it out. You kick butt at Risk. I’ll pick up your slack at Pictionary. Team effort.”

Sensing eyes on us, too hungry to stop myself, I close the distance between us and kiss her until she’s wide-eyed and gasping. “I like the sound of that.”

· TWENTY-THREE ·

Bea

Jamie was not exaggerating. He is terrible at drawing. I have never seen him this frazzled, even after we decided a shot of tequila was a super-good idea. Dutch courage, et cetera.

He points at the paper again, jabbing it with his marker.

“Jamie, pointing doesn’t help!” I tug at my hair. “I’ve guessed every possible thing I can think of.”

“Shocker,” Toni says, “they were all genitals.”

I throw a pillow at his head.

“We’re leaving,” Margo calls as Sula hauls the stroller past her. “Our spawn is over all you fools.”

Rowan’s shrieks confirm this. I blow the three of them a kiss, then turn back to face Jamie as he stands, head thrown back, shaking his fists at the gods of Pictionary, who do not hear him.

Tipping my head, I squint.