Page 3 of The Party Plot

One of the flowers in the arrangement on the kitchen counter was sticking up a little too far above the others, and Casey pushed it down, bruising the petals. Shit. Now it was mangled, and even more noticeable than before. His hands were trembling. He couldn’t trust himself. He hoped they hadn’t been trembling when he’d shaken the hand of Denise’s son. He hoped Laurel hadn’t been able to feel his skin burning, the throb of blood in his palms.

Yes, he had known Laurel was rich. They hadn’t shared much about their backgrounds, but there had been an unmissable sense of moneyed self-satisfaction to him. Plenty of people were rich, though. And Laurel had been on his way to Belgium.

(Belgium, where Denise’s ex-husband, the baron, lived. Somehow, Casey hadn’t made the connection.)

A headache was starting up behind his left eye. The room was too hot and smelled overwhelmingly of petunias, and he stared down at the counter in a daze, forgetting why he’d come in here. To get ice, maybe, or to escape. He thought for a moment about putting his head in the freezer, resting his cheek on a packet of frozen vegetables. The little galley kitchen of the old plantation house was seldom used—Denise had had a newer, modern kitchen put in—so Casey had known he would be alone in here. By now he was extremely familiar with the layout of Denise’s house, as well as the inner workings of her mind. And yet he’d somehow missed that her wayward son was the same man he’d slept with. Had missed that Laurel was the same person as the little boy in all of her family photos. To be fair, the way she’d spoken about her son had always made Casey imagine he was straight. But the omission made Casey feel stupid, just the same. He hated feeling that way. It was suffocating in here, even more so than it was outside, and the patterns on the wallpaper were frenetic and too loud, making him dizzy.

He made himself take a breath, the air soupy and bathtub-warm.

“Okay,” Casey said out loud. He’d had his little moment. He flexed his shoulders, forcing his spine to straighten up. He’d put himself back together and go back out there. It wasn’t even that big of an issue, anyway. Surely Laurel knew how to be discreet. He had to; he probably had a pile of dirty little secrets even higher than Casey’s, so of course he wouldn’t say anything—

But that wasn’t the problem, his brain whispered. The problem was that things were overlapping in a way that he didn’t like. The carefully-curated sections of his life were scraping up against each other, and it set his teeth on edge.

He nearly let out a yelp as the door opened, his nails digging into the counter.

“I wasn’t looking for you,” Laurel Van Marcke said, standing in the doorway. “Or, I kind of was. But I also might throw up or have a heart attack if I have another one of those sugary drinks, and I know Mom keeps the good bourbon in here.” A sheepish grin crossed his face, and Casey, annoyingly, felt his heart do a little flutter.

He pressed his lips together. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Laurel’s presence here was like a stain on his suit, out-of-place, demanding his attention. An imperfection that threw off the whole.

There wasn’t anything remarkable about Laurel Van Marcke. At least, that had been Casey’s first impression. He was blandly handsome, harmlessly affable, and obviously spoiled. The kind of low-achieving golden boy that Casey had loathed in high school. And that had been the whole point, right? The loathing. That had been the premise behind the hookup. A kind of revenge against all those boys who were rewarded just for existing.

A weird way to get revenge, and not one Casey particularly wanted to unpack. But it had felt so good to have Laurel at his mercy.

He cleared his throat. “I trust we can both be adults about this.” His voice sounded obnoxiously prim to his own ears.

“Sure.” Laurel was still smiling. There were freckles on his cheeks, and Casey knew they also scattered down his neck and across his shoulders. “Do you mind?”

“You being here?”

“No, I mean, can you move? I need to get into that cabinet.”

Casey shifted to the side wordlessly, not enough to keep Laurel’s arm from brushing against him. He allowed it, as a test of endurance.

“Aha.” Laurel pulled a dusty brown bottle out of the cabinet at Casey’s elbow. “Told you. Do you want some? I guess maybe we should toast. To—memories, or something.” He looked up, brown eyes shining. One of his canine teeth was slightly longer than the other, and it caught on his lip when he grinned. Casey wasn’t sure why he found it so compelling.

“No thanks,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Oh yeah. You don’t drink much, do you.”

“I like to be in control.”

“I gathered that.” There was a sly expression on Laurel’s face as he poured himself a glass, then leaned against the counter, studying Casey. The little galley kitchen was far too narrow, their feet nearly touching, the air between them perfumey and humid. Casey could feel the edge of the sink digging into his hip.

“It’s good to see you,” Laurel said finally. “You look great. That skincare routine’s been paying off.”

A memory: kissing in the hot tub as dawn seeped up from the horizon, Las Vegas laid out like a carpet of tarnished rhinestones.Stay here, Laurel had said.We can sleep in. Get room service.

Sorry, Casey had told him.My morning skincare routine is more important than you.

“Thanks.” It was hot, hotter than it had been in the tub, a vein in Casey’s temple throbbing, and he could feel Laurel’s face pressed against his neck as vividly as if it had been tattooed there. He hadn’t done his skincare routine that morning, despite what he’d said. He had sat staring out over the city, face hot and blotchy, stomach cold and fingers tingling, a stack of pancakes that he had ordered but couldn’t bring himself to eat growing cold on the table. “You look tired.”

“Long night.” Laurel took another drink, and wiped self-consciously at the shadows under one eye.

“I bet.”Up late with another stranger you met in a bar?he thought about asking—but of course he didn’t. Because it didn’t matter either way. Casey pushed off from the sink, standing up straight. “Listen, Laurel. I think it’s best if we—”

“Oh, I agree completely. Nothing happened and we’ve never met before.” And, infuriatingly, he fuckingwinked, and made a lazy little toast before draining his glass. “I just have to ask though, how in the hell did you end up working for my mom? You don’t strike me as a party planner, and I can’t imagine you like—”

Oh no. They wouldn’t have this conversation. This conversation was dangerous. “Control,” Casey cut him off, voice cool. “I like control. And putting things in their place. And money, Laurel. I love making money. So if you don’t mind, I need to get back to—”

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