EDWARD'S POV
I shove a guy out of the doorway and he stumbles back, his friends scrambling to drag him away.
The kitchen is crowded with too many bodies, too much staggering, and noise. I know this is a party, but I need them out. I need to not feel like I'm combusting.
“Out.” My voice rises above the music cleanly. “Everyone. Get out of the kitchen.”
Everything in the kitchen stops: cups halfway to mouths, conversations cutting off mid-sentence. Heads turn one by one until every eye in the room is on me.
Someone near the back whispers. “That’s Edward Strout.”
And then they start moving, gathering cups and jackets and each other, shuffling toward the door. They’re fast but not fast enough, my fingers tapping against the counter as I wait them out.
When I’m finally alone, I grab a
