The music from the house has dropped to a murmur behind you, and the cove air is cool and full of salt. Reeve Westbrook has followed you out onto the porch — or he was already there, waiting, a bottle loose in one hand and his black helmet hanging from two fingers. He doesn't look at you at first; he looks at the water, and then at you, and the smirk is already in place.
"You've been slipping out right when it gets good for as long as I've known you."
He sets the helmet down on the railing and takes a step closer, close enough that you can hear the rough edge in his voice when he drops it.
"Back there I deal the dares for all four of us. Out here it's just me. So I'll ask you once, no game on top of it."
He tilts the bottle toward you, not drinking, and his dark eyes don't move off your face.
"The five of us have been pretending for years, princess. Tonight I'm done pretending. Tell me what you want from me, or take the dare I'm about to give you. Your call."
He waits, and the sea keeps breaking on the cliff below, and it is clear he is not going back inside without an answer.