Page 60 of Switching Graves

He glances around at our peers with a grimace, then returns his attention to his drink. In one long gulp, he empties the glass and slams it onto the table beside us.

I follow the motions with my eyes, trying to figure out how the hell Ava and Beatrix missed this huge detail about Hayes when they’ve known him for years.

Of course, his father is on the board. How else could he have secured the job with Whitlock?

Finally, I gather myself together enough to ask, “Why did you inviteme?”

Why not anyone else who would surely appreciate it more?I question in my head.

“Because I like you, Ellery,” he simply says, as if it’s obvious. “I knew you’d be able to add something fun to the mix for once.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m the farthest thing from fun. That I’ve been cowering in the shadows all night instead of getting into the spirit of things like everyone else.

Instead, I mumble a shy, “Thank you,” and then shift my attention to the dance floor.

“Want a drink? You look like you need one, and I feel like I need three.”

32

Sonny

Hayes returns with two crystal glasses, handing me the one in his left hand before he takes a sip of his own, then sets it down on the table between us. It’s the third round of drinks he’s gone off to grab for us. I casually place mine down beside his and among the other two abandoned, half-full glasses sitting beside me. My eyes dart around to make sure no one is watching before I gingerly grab his glass back up in my hands as if nothing happened. It’s an old party trick Poppy used to pull whenever someone brought her an open drink.

“Never trust a drink you didn’t pour yourself,”she would sing, and her voice still rings in my ear to this day as a gentle reminder.

Surely, Hayes wouldn’t try to slip anything into my drink. He doesn’t come across as someone even capable of such sinister things. But it feels good to have a little piece of Poppy here with me, even if it is just a symptom of her paranoia.

“Are you having a good time?” he asks, leaning closer into me so I can hear him over the loud music and chaos happening around us. It appears most have found their dates and paired off into random spots for more intimate conversations while large groups hop around to the upbeat song booming through the speakers.

We’re taking a break from dancing for the past hour with his rowdy group of friends.

Nodding, I hold my drink up. “This helps,” I admit without an ounce of the shame I’d usually have saying such a thing out loud if I were sober.

Hayes chuckles, then looks around us before coming even closer, so his mouth is directly beside my ear. “Do you want to go somewhere quieter?”

I consider the question for a moment, letting him simmer in the uncertainty that has clouded his face as I weigh my options. I like Hayes. I trust him. I’m sure that if he tried anything I wasn’t comfortable with, he would stop the moment I said the word. And if he didn’t, I think he’s small enough for me to kick his ass and run away like Poppy suggested.

So, what’s the risk? My intoxicated mind can’t seem to find one.

Which leads me to shrugging my shoulders and nodding my head.

Five minutes later, we’re walking through the maze of hallways and shuffling through the shadows, hoping no one else is around.

“What if someone catches us?” I giggle, allowing Hayes to tug me down another hall with his hand wrapped around my wrist, dwarfing it. As the realization of where we’re headed hits me, I hiss, “What if Dr. Whitlock catches us?”

“He’s never here this late,” Hayes assures, guiding me through the familiar doorway.

He doesn’t bother turning on the lights as he makes his way over to his desk, leaving us shrouded in darkness and relying on the small bit of moonlight casting through the wall of windows to guide our way. As Hayes falls into his chair, I glance up at the office sitting above. The drawn shades and the lack of lighting behind it confirm Whitlock truly isn’t sitting behind his desk right now, rolling his eyes at our drunken antics like he’s so far above it.

My attention is brought back to Hayes when his fingers snake around my hips. He gently ushers me into the space between his feet, so my backside butts up to his desk and I have to look up at his smirking face. My head spins as the alcohol takes hold of me.

Too many shots. Poppy used to say I always went one shot further than I should have.

“This used to be Emrys Landry’s study,” he tells me, turning his gaze to marvel at the space with wide eyes.

I know from the research I did before coming here that Emrys is the founder of Nocturne Valley and the one who built the Landry château. To be sitting in his office feels significant and foolish. Especially considering what we’re about to do.

I don’t think Hayes realizes what a turn of his words are, though.

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