Page 48 of Without a Trace
Sloane turned to me. “Okay. Your turn. Go for blood.”
I raised my glass, slow. “Most likely to fall for the wrong person. Again.”
This time, Alden drank.
So did Trace.
The silence that followed wasn’t accidental.
Kane tried to play it off, tossing a handful of peanuts across the table. “Jesus. This is getting dark.”
“It’s getting honest,” I said.
I was still smiling, but my pulse was a mess.
Trace set his drink down. “What’s your type, Scarlett?”
His voice was quiet—measured—but every syllable carried weight.
The group hushed as I leaned back, stretching my legs, letting the hem of my sweatshirt ride up just enough.
“Loyal,” I said.
Trace pressed his lips into a hard line.
“Patient,” I added.
Alden’s eyes flickered to the side.
“Dangerous,” I finished.
No one spoke.
Then I took a sip like none of it meant anything.
But it did.
It always did.
I could feel it now—the wrongness, the rightness. The way they both lived under my skin.
Scarlett
The sun bled gold across the water, a final warning—last light, last chance, last fucking sanity.
And we were too far gone to care.
“Another round!” Sloane shouted, holding up a bottle of something clear.
“God help us,” Kane muttered, grinning.
I was barefoot, cross-legged on a lounge cushion with Sloane on one side and Lena on the other, our shoulders pressed together. Music thumped from a speaker someone had barely kept dry, while Rhett danced badly on the bow.
Trace hadn’t moved from his spot, but his eyes hadn’t left me.
“Okay, okay,” Sloane said, tipsy and flushed. “New rule. You drink twice if you refuse to answer.”
“And you have to take your shirt off if you lose a round,” she added, already down to her bikini top.
