“Annie.”

I startle. It’s Reed, standing beside Soup, the croquet mallet still in his hands.

“Oh, hi.”

He’s brushed his hair to the side so I can actually see his eyes now. Yes. Different from at work.

“You want a burger?” Soup asks him.

“Sure,” Reed says, dropping the mallet in the grass. “I’ll drown my croquet woes in grease.”

Soup scrapes another burger off the grill.

“Woes?” I ask. “You looked like you were doing just fine out there.”

“My ball is somewhere downstream and underwater, and my croquet partner left me to catch and torture frogs. Oh yeah, after calling me Uncle Idiot.”

Soup chuckles. “Sorry.”

“I’ve been called worse by Vicky,” Reed says with a shrug.

“Haven’t we all,” Soup mused. “Annie here was just bragging about how great she is at croquet.”

I choke on my burger.

“You okay?” Reed asks.

“Fine.” I cough. “Just surprised since I’ve never bragged about being good at any sport in my entire life.”

“What?” Soup feigns astonishment. “A minute ago you were standing here telling me you could wipe the floor with Uncle Idiot. Make him cry for his mama and everything.”

Reed shakes his head. “I have to draw the line at you calling me Uncle Idiot too.”

“He lies,” I say, trying not to laugh. “I’m terrible at any sport involving a ball or aim or coordination. Not great at the ones involving speed or strength either. Plus, I already have an Uncle Idiot—my mom’s brother—so I wouldn’t call you that. I promise.”

“I don’t believe you. I think we need to play croquet.” He puts his plate on a table, burger untouched.

I follow Reed back to where the croquet mallets are lying on the ground, the skinny heels of my sandals sinking into the grass with every step.

He eyes my feet. “Those aren’t exactly croquet shoes.”

Up until this moment I’ve loved these shoes—they go perfectly with my blue sundress—but I’m suddenly wishing I’d chosen something a little less girly. “Then I’ll blame them when I lose.”

Still, I slip them off and toss them beneath a garden bench. The piña colada goes beside my plate of half-eaten burger on top of the bench, and I join Reed by the croquet balls.

“Which color?” he asks, holding up a green and a yellow ball. His knuckles are flecked with a different-colored paint now. Eggshell blue.

“What if I say red?”

“Then I guess I’ll have to go wade through the creek and find the red ball.”

“You’d do that?”

He looks down toward the creek, his hair flashing gold in the sun. “You’d make me?”

I hesitate. “Yellow.”

He drops both balls at the starting post, and they make a satisfying clunk against each other. “Why’d you choose yellow?”

“I’m an artist,” I say. “Yellow is sunlight.”

“Sunlight? I don’t know. I think of lemons or butter before I think of sunlight.”

“But you’re a chef.”

“I am a chef.”

“Lemons and butter are nice but not exactly essentials. I can’t live without sunlight.”

He puts his hand over his chest. “And my chef ’s heart is breaking right now.”

I lean on my mallet, feel the head sinking into the grass under my weight, the sweet heaviness of the summer air pushing down on me.

“Who starts?” I ask.

“Ladies first.”

I line myself up and take my first shot. It doesn’t go very far. My ball only makes it halfway to the first wicket and about a foot too far to the left. “It’s because I’m barefoot. And I’ve been drinking piña coladas.”

He walks back to the bench, picks up my drink, and takes a sip. “This is virgin.”

“Shoot,” I say. “Then I guess I’m just really bad at this. Exactly like I told you I am.”

His laughter is deep and natural, not loud but melodic. I want to be closer to it. I wait by the post and watch the setting sun warm his features as he concentrates on the ball. He hits it, and it rolls through the first wicket.

“Cheater,” I mumble.

He taps the side of my calf with his mallet. “I wasn’t the one trying to distract my opponent.”

“I’m not trying to distract you.”

“You should not try a little harder then.”

Distracting. I look away, fighting the shyness suddenly warming me.

We hit the ball a few more times each. “You weren’t kidding,” he says. My ball is finally through the first thicket; his is a foot from the end post.

“About my athletic abilities? Nope. I’m not sure why you aren’t giving me the same treatment as Piper got, though.”

“You want me to let you win?”

“No. But you could at least let me think I’m catching up.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m not afraid of you like I’m afraid of Piper. I love her, but she’s nuts.” He hits his ball too hard, deliberately missing the post by two feet. “Better?”

“Much. So you’re painting something blue?” I ask.

He rests his mallet against his leg and holds his speckled hands out. They look calloused and rough beneath the splatter. “Yeah, I just finished the den. Moving on to the kitchen next. I should be finished with the rooms by next week, then starting outside after that.”

“At least it’s not too big,” I say, glancing back at the quaint house. It has a separate garage and a weathered fence that borders the entire property.

“Yeah, but the upkeep is still too much for her,” he says. “That’s why she’s selling it, which is why I’m painting it. I’m hoping to have it ready for her to put up for sale by the end of the summer so she can move into a place where she doesn’t have a lawn to mow or stairs to climb.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” I say.

“I don’t mind it. I’d rather spend the summer with her than my parents, and she’s been pretty lonely these last few years. Plus I’m getting free room and board in the apartment over the garage, so I’ve got my own space and my own kitchen.”

“Where do your parents live?”

“LA.”

“Huh. You don’t sound like you’re from California.”

“I’m not. I grew up in Louisville, but my parents moved out West a few years ago. I did my last two years of high school there, then came back the second after I graduated.”

“But California’s the place everyone wants to escape to.”

“I wasn’t exactly living in Beverly Hills.”

“Oh.” I slap a mosquito off my leg.

“What about you?” he asks.

“What about me?”

“Born and raised here?”

“Yeah.”

“And your family? Any crazy sisters, neglected grandmas? Now you know all about mine.”

“Oh.” I stare hard at the mallet in my hands. “My family’s small.”

“Siblings?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Just a mom who used to teach Victorian Lit,” he says, “and a dad who doesn’t like it when you get home too late.”

“That’s pretty much it.”

He squints at me. I know I sound dumb or aloof, but I don’t want to talk about my family.

“So, what time is officially too late tonight?”

I smile and hope it’s dark enough that he doesn’t notice. “Actually tonight they’re out with friends, so they’ll just be texting me every hour.”

He laughs. I should probably tell him I’m not kidding. Instead I say, “So we can finish our game, at least.”

“Theoretically.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, no offense, but at this rate I’m not sure your ball is ever going to make it to the post and back.”

I glare at him as I walk over to my ball, put my bare foot on top of it, roll it toward the next wicket, and push it through. “I actually do much better at this game when I’m playing in the dark.”

“I can see that.”

I nudge and roll my ball through the next few wickets with my toes, aware of Reed’s eyes on my bare legs. It’s dark enough now and we’re far enough from the lawn torches that I’m probably just a silhouette.

A high-pitched laugh floats over, and I glance at the center of the party, where people look like they’re pulsing in the moonlight. The voices are getting louder as the sky darkens and the drinks flow, but it’s the sound of orderly drunkenness. Occasional cackles and hoots are as bad as it gets—a grown-up party, as opposed to the few high school benders Mo and I have made brief appearances at. Nobody half-naked on the couch, nobody puking in the bushes.

We’re on the edge of the gathering, visibly separate. I can’t see Reed’s grandma anymore. She must’ve gone inside, and Vicky has finished with the gifts and is shouting for Soup to get her more pink lemonade.

“I’m glad you came,” Reed says. “Aside from the work people, I don’t know many of them.”

“They seem nice,” I say.

“They seem about ten years older than us.”

He has stopped playing entirely and is sitting on a large rock, leaning back on his palms, watching me cheat. It’s too dark to see much more than his eyes, but I can still feel them warming my skin.

“So, you’re a chef. What do you cook?” I ask.

“Food.”

I roll my eyes. “Really? How fascinating.”

“I’m still reeling from being told butter and lemons are nonessentials.”

“If I take it back, will you tell me what you like to cook?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I apologize to butter and lemon lovers everywhere.”

“I’ll accept your apology on their behalf.”

“So, answer my question.”

“I like to cook whatever makes people happy. For my grandma that’s hot browns, cheddar grits, and derby pie. For Soup and Vicky, ribs and chocolate anything. For Piper, mac’n’cheese.”

“What do you cook at culinary school?”

“Uh, mostly unpronounceable French sauces.”