Page 32 of The Party Plot

I don’t see how hard it would be. No, of course she didn’t, because nothing was too hard, not if you had money to throw at it. They could get sunflowers, and pumpkins, and corn husk dolls and whatever else Denise’s basic, basic heart desired. It was justannoying. Casey could feel the pressure of a pimple building along the line of his jaw. He shouldn’t have used whatever cheap facial scrub it was that Laurel kept at the beach house. He pressed the edge of his thumbnail into his skin, willing the blemish to go away.

“Mom, why don’t you just let Casey do his job? He knows what he’s doing.” Laurel took a swig of the signature cocktail Landry Hall’s caterers had mocked up for them. Some kind of pumpkin spice espresso martini, it was sweet, laced with nutmeg and surprisingly good. Casey had only allowed himself a sip, but now he watched how it left Laurel’s lips wet and sticky, and imagined tasting it on him.

That was another problem: Laurel’s lips and his flushed skin, the smooth plane of his back and the way he had pulsed and shuddered around Casey’s fingers. The dusting of his eyelashes against his cheek. The plush softness of his mouth as he’d lain in bed, just begging to be kissed goodbye. Casey looked away, back to the unappetizing assortment of seafood pieces on his plate. The blood was roaring in his ears, and he felt heat rise in his face.

“Laurel, sweetie, I’m not even sure why you’re here,” Denise said. “This can’t be interesting for you.”

Even without looking up, Casey could hear the shrug in Laurel’s voice. “Free food.”

It was true that Laurel had seemed to enjoy each of the dishes, from the weird potato appetizer that was supposed to evoke a Lowcountry boil, to the she-crab soup fritters, to the caramelized pumpkin tartlets. But he’d been raised on this; Laurel knew how to pronounceamuse-bouchewithout sounding obnoxious and didn’t balk at the idea of a langoustine foam. (What the hell even was that? Casey longed for some crackers, or a Cup o’ Noodles.) Now he was happily peeling the shell off a prawn, his fingers red and gritty with seasoning, as Denise looked on in dismay.

“It just seems messy,” Denise said.

It did, didn’t it? Hooking up in the kitchen, getting a blow job at a party, throwing all caution to the wind. God, he’d even thought about spending the night, and Casey never did that. He’d stood in the shower and wondered what it would be like to cuddle up with Laurel, their hands tangled together, his face buried in Laurel’s hair.

What would Denise say if she knew? Casey had no problem keeping secrets from her. He had no problem lying to her face. But just now, he couldn’t seem to look her way, not without his stomach clenching. He watched Laurel suck a knuckle into his mouth. Why did this man and his appetites make Casey’s heart pound so hard? And when had Laurel’s little idiosyncrasies stopped being annoying and started being oddly adorable?

“Right, Casey? People aren’t going to want peel n’ eat shrimp at a ball.”

“We can definitely elevate it,” said the event manager. Her name, Casey remembered, was Jeanette. “Eliminate the finger food element, but keep the down-home feel.”

“Uh.” Casey pinched the bridge of his nose. Right, the shrimp were what was messy. “Yes, perfect. Finger food is a big no. People will be in costume.”

“What costume are you going to wear, Casey?” Laurel asked brightly.

“I’m not.” He met his eyes, daring him to react, to blush. “I’m sure you’ll come up with a great one, though.”

“Right.” Laurel smiled, a tantalizing hint of teeth. “I’m good at costumes, or so I’ve been told.”

“Oh, Casey, that reminds me. Do we have everything ordered for my outfit?” Casey startled as Denise put a hand on his arm.

“Yes. Of course.” No,wedid not. Denise was going as Audrey Hepburn fromBreakfast at Tiffany’s, and Casey hadn’t even started looking for a dress, let alone a little suit and tie for Jasper, which the poor dog would probably try to eat. Casey’s jaw was throbbing, and he suppressed the urge to run into the bathroom and examine his face, see if the zit had gotten bigger. He would have to call around and make sure no one else was planning the same costume. Denise wouldn’t want to be upstaged.

“Can we go over the design for the seafood towers?” Jeanette asked. Denise had requested one per table. Thousands of dollars of expensive seafood getting warm and rubbery under Landry Hall’s overhead lights as the night went on. Casey wondered if anyone would eat any of it. The fish egg on his plate stared up at him accusingly.

“The crab legs were delicious,” Laurel said. “You’ve got to include those.” He was leaning back in his chair, chewing on a skewer from one of the appetizers. Casual, careless. Maddeningly gorgeous. How did he do it? Casey spent hours on his appearance every morning, but Laurel seemed to just roll out of bed looking amazing. Involuntarily, Casey thought back to the night they’d met. Scrolling on his phone, bored in the casino, he had felt someone sit down next to him. He’d looked up. Laurel’s face had been like a punch in the chest.

Oh God damn it, he had thought.

He was thinking basically the same thing right now, watching Laurel across the table, remembering his freckles in the moonlight. Jeanette was showing Denise pictures of something on her tablet, but Casey had completely forgotten what they were talking about. Something to do with fish, right? Oh, the seafood towers.

He licked his lips, meaning to say something, but they seemed to be doing fine without him. Casey looked down into the well of his martini glass. He thought about draining it.

“So we’ve got a couple of mockups here for you,” Jeanette said.

Laurel leaned in, taking a look. “I like the one with the baby octopus.”

“Oh, Laurel, no. They’recreepy.” Denise shuddered.

“Isn’t that the idea? It’s Halloween. Don’t you want Sarah Ann Copeland to feel a little shiver down her spine?”

Denise crossed her arms. “This is a classy, elegant ball. Not some—some haunted house party.”

Denise’s tone and the thin line of her mouth made sweat break out on Casey’s forehead, but Laurel continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “Although to really scare Sarah Ann, you’d probably have to hire only nonbinary servers with purple hair, and pass out pamphlets on Critical Race Theory—”

“Laurel. This isn’t funny.” Denise leaned forward in her chair, fingers clamped so tightly around the stem of her glass that Casey thought she might break it. “What has gotten into you? First I hear that you’re picking fights with Howie Bonard—at his brother’s fundraiser, no less—and now you’re making tasteless jokes.”

“What’s tasteless is your guest list,” Laurel muttered, looking down at the tablecloth like a scolded child. A line of tension stood out in his neck. Casey felt a little stab of curiosity, hearing about the fundraiser. It seemed out of character for Laurel to be picking fights with anyone. Was Howie Bonard what had set him off, made him so desperate? Had he actually been crying, out there in the stable? Casey bit his lip, stomach twisting. He didn’t want to get involved, not in any of it. He could feel something hostile building between Laurel and Denise, making the back of his neck itchy and uncomfortable.

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