Welcome to Corbet's Inlet, North Carolina, where the teenagers act like adults and the adults act like teenagers. It's Griffin Connolly's favorite place in the world. And while she may not be good at making decisions when it comes to her own life, s...
"Lauren wants to cook dinner for Evan, Matty, and Charlie later."
"Charlie?" her dad repeated. Griffin's stomach flipped. "Do we know him?"
She followed her parents out of their room and down the stairs. "He's Evan's cousin who's here for the summer."
"Well, don't be out too late if you're planning on driving to Greensboro tomorrow," her dad said.
"I won't." Griffin all but ushered her parents through the front door. "We're just cooking. I'll probably be home before y'all are."
Which was 100% true. Even though it was starting in the late afternoon, any type of fundraiser at the club was code for BOTTOMLESS CHAMPAGNE.
Her parents honked the golf cart horn as the turn out of the driveway. Griffin waved goodbye, then slammed the door shut and pressed her back against it.
Success.
She bolted upstairs to start packing for her trip.
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Most days Griffin had a lot more patience for her best friend and her constant need to make everything perfect.
Today was not one of those days.
Griffin had already spent the majority of the weekend avoiding her friends thanks to what happened at Mary Kyle's, which left her spending way too much time at the Tennis Hut. She finally got so sick of having the same tennis conversation over and over with Drew Sardis that she was willing to endure the fascist regime that was Lauren Armstrong in a culinary environment.
"Griffin, that's not enough olive oil," Lauren said. She'd been side-eyeing Griffin since she put her in charge of cooking pasta.
To be fair, Griffin couldn't boil an egg without supervision, but that wasn't the point.
"Got it," she said, stirring in more olive oil and trying not to scowl. "When are the boys getting here?"
"They better get their asses here soon. We're almost ready to sit down," Lauren said. She darted around the kitchen, sampling the pasta sauce, making sure the chicken was ready to add to the main dish, setting the table for five... Making Griffin anxious.
...Or maybe it was just the fifth place setting.
"Smells good in here, girls," Lauren's mom said, strolling into the kitchen dressed to kill. Griffin's mouth popped open.
For a woman in her fifties, Ms. Armstrong could easily pass for mid-thirties. Her red, floor-length gown was skin tight (she ran two marathons a year) and fanned out at the bottom. She'd swept her caramel-colored hair glamorously to the side, and her makeup was so flawless it made Griffin wish she'd put more effort into her own appearance before coming here.
Lauren raised her eyebrows. "Damn, Veronica. Where the hell did you get that?"
Ms. Armstrong smoothed a hand down her dress. "This old thing? Just something I had lying around."
