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missed. She goes into excrutiating detail about Kat’s debutante ball–her dress, her dates. Yes, plural.
    Quinn nods at the appropriate times, takes bites of his food when there’s a lull, and keeps glancing at Kat like he’s scared she’ll fling another dish at his head. I feel sorry for him. For all of them. Ellie’s trying so hard to carry on with yearly updates like a festive Christmas card, Kat’s stewing in obvious repulsion, and Quinn looks guilty on all counts.
    And guilt, I understand.
    As much as I put up a good game when my parents are mentioned, a little guilt sometimes slips through. I lost them, thus lost my security and faith in the world as I knew it. But the guilt I felt wasn’t because I left
them
without a daughter, it was because I left
me
without a family. Like giving up chocolate at Lent. Chocolate is a guilty pleasure for a reason. My family was my guilty pleasure yet I gave them up, knowing I craved the parents they could be. The parents they were before they found out I was a genius.
    Maybe Quinn craves his family as they were before he left. I don’t have the right to judge him based off the little I know. And besides, he’s making an effort to mend his broken family, though I would never make that effort with mine. He deserves the sympathy I feel for him. He paid the cost and lost their trust. Now he has to earn it back. The least I could do is be supportive on a subliminal level.
    “Sounds like you had a great time at your debut,” Quinn says. “I’d love to see pictures.” I think he forced it out because the lines curving around the corners of his mouth aren’t moving when he talks.
    “You wouldn’t need pictures had you been there”—Kat pushes back from the table with a sigh— “as my escort.” She stares at her brother like she wants to say more. Instead, she shakes her head, picks up her drink, and heads over to the fire pit.
    Ellie rises, too. “Sorry,” she mouths. “Work in progress.”
    Seeing this as an escape for me and an opportunity for him to mend one hell of a fence with his sisters, I toss my napkin on my plate, and scoot back from the table. “Dinner was delicious, but I think I’ll head to bed.”
    “Stay,” Quinn whispers. “Please.”
    “I’m not even supposed to be out here with you guys. Your mom told me to keep to myself. Worker bee.” I point at my chest. “Client-slash-family equals off-limits.” I point at him.
    He grabs my finger, turns it in until my hand fists into a ball. “There’s no division here. We’re equals.”
    I snort. The Covingtons own Charleston. They live and breathe charm and wit and blend so seamlessly with the other big names around them, their flaws disappear completely. Kat’s outburst tonight would never happen in public. I got a sneak peek behind the scenes of true Covington life, but damn if I’m going to believe we’re equal. Mrs. Covington highlighted that point in my initiation packet. I work for the family, they do not work for me. Quinn Covington is top-shelf liquor, I’m a melting ice cube kicked under the cabinets.
    I pull my hand from his to stack our dishes.
    “Hey, we’ve got staff for that.”
    I slide the plates back onto the table and squeeze my hands together. “I know; just habit.” I turn and head past the others before anyone sees my cheeks swell with red welts. Being a redhead has its pluses, but obvious embarrassment isn’t one of them.
    “Slow down,” he says, laughter chasing his words. “Where are you going?”
    “I’m just—” flustered. Out of my element.
    “A leaf with no direction?”
    “Pretty much.”
    He settles his hands on my shoulders and forces me to stop walking. “You’re blowing the wrong way.” He turns me around and drives me toward his family.
    “Haven’t heard that one before,” I mutter under my breath.
    “Just relax for five minutes and have a marshmallow.”
    What am I doing? This is absurd. I don’t relax, drink wine, and gossip about who