On Sunday, at exactly 1a.m., the last guest’s Uber disappeared down the driveway. The backyard was back to being quiet except for the low hum of the pool filter and the soft slap of water against tile.
Harper had passed out on a lounger an hour ago, wrapped in a towel, still clutching a half-empty can of White Claw.
I’d tucked a blanket over her, kissed her forehead like a good best friend, then slipped away.
Dominic was waiting for me in the deep end, naked, water lapping at his hips, moonlight carving every ridge of muscle in his body. He didn’t speak, just crooked one finger at me, signaling me to come.
I walked to the edge and let the tiny red bikini he’d picked out earlier fall to the deck.
The night air kissed every mark he’d left on me this weekend, the hickeys on my neck, the
