Whistleblower, page 32
“Howdy, neighbors!” Rachel called. “You two look all dressed up. What’s the occasion?”
“Date night!” the blond woman called back. “His treat.”
A voice in my head whispered, Sugar daddy. That’s what my mom would say. But it seemed unfair to make any judgment calls on someone else’s life choices when I was the one in bedazzled loaner shorts.
“Chloe’s joking, of course,” the man told Rachel. “She got another promotion, so dinner’s on her. I think she said she’s treating me to lobster tails and a margarita?”
“Like hell,” Chloe said, swatting at his arm. “George is the designated driver tonight. If anyone needs a margarita, it’s me.
What are you up to, Rach? Don’t tell me you’re headed out to Marlin Bay this late. You’re going to ruin your eyes if you keep painting in the dark.”
“Don’t worry, I’m taking the weekend off. My niece—oh gosh! How rude of me. This is my niece, Waverly.” To me, she said, “These are my neighbors, George and Chloe Hamilton.”
She turned back to the Hamiltons. “I picked Waverly up at the airport about an hour ago, so I’m taking the kid to dinner out at Holden Point before she starves.”
“That’s where we were headed,” Chloe said. “Why don’t we eat together?”
“We wouldn’t want to barge in on your date—”
“You’re not barging,” George said.
“I could real y use some social interaction,” Chloe seconded.
“Between this new client who can’t make up his damn mind about the way he wants his living room to look and Isabel’s obsession with Dora the Explorer reruns, I don’t think I’ve had a real conversation in weeks. I don’t even care what we talk about, as long as it’s not carpet samples or Swiper the Fox.”
“You could tell us about Waverly’s trip,” George suggested.
“Where’d you get in from?”
“Alaska.”
George let out a low whistle. “How are you taking the change in temperature?”
“I’m managing.” A complete lie. I felt like I was about to pass out.
“What grade are you going into next year, Waverly?” Chloe asked.
“I’ll be a senior.”
“Oh, you’re Blake’s age! George’s son.”
“Where is he tonight?” Rachel asked. “The kids having another beach bash?”
“I’m sure they are,” George said, “but Blake is babysitting.”
Chloe opened her mouth to add something but was interrupted by a high-pitched screech of mischievous delight. A toddler dressed in tiny pink overalls waddled onto the porch and made a break for it. Chloe lunged and caught the kid before she could launch herself off the steps.
“Blake,” George hollered. “I think you’re missing something!”
I glanced at my aunt to see if she was concerned about the fact that this Blake guy was obviously a mediocre babysitter, but Rachel was just chuckling to herself as she rummaged through her purse in search of her car keys.
And then a boy appeared in the Hamiltons’ front doorway, his arms folded over his chest and his expression a mask of brooding teenage apathy. He was tall, broad shouldered, and dark haired—a true triple threat—and he was easily the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen in person, which I knew wasn’t a very impressive statement given that there was a grand total of 228 kids enrolled in my private high school back in Fairbanks. But I hardly knew how else to quantify just how much the sight of him struck me. The air left my lungs, the world stopped turning, the stars fell. Every awful metaphor I’d ever heard seemed applicable.
“Could you at least try to keep an eye on Isabel?” George asked in the trademark disappointed dad voice I recognized from sitcoms.
“I told you, I don’t want to watch her,” Blake said. “I have to go to the beach.”
“No, you don’t,” Chloe snapped. “Hand over your phone.”
She transferred the toddler, Isabel, into one arm and, with her free hand, reached for the phone in question. Chloe sounded shockingly authoritative, given that she was about six inches shorter than Blake, even in her five-inch heels. Rachel, who was studiously giving the Hamiltons some privacy by riffling through her purse, didn’t seem surprised.
“No way.”
“Blake. Phone.” He didn’t hand it over. “Now,” Chloe snapped.
Blake shoved his hand into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out his cell phone. He slapped it into Chloe’s waiting palm. Triumphant, she passed the phone to George, then held out Isabel until Blake reluctantly accepted the toddler into his arms.
“Bubby!” Isabel cried in a happy baby gurgle.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, jerking his head back so she couldn’t grab his hair. Isabel, unperturbed, batted at his nose instead.
Rachel laughed and called out, “You’re making me miss my big brother.”
Blake, who apparently hadn’t spotted Rachel and me yet, startled and looked our way. He grimaced. I’m fairly certain I grimaced back. This was not how I wanted to make my social debut in Holden.
“Blake,” Rachel said, “this is my niece, Waverly. She’s visiting through August. I think the two of you are the same age! You’ll have lots to talk about, with your college apps and your—I don’t know. What do kids your age do now? Are you still on Facebook? I can’t keep up.”
Blake smiled tightly—almost mockingly. Chloe thumped him across the shoulder.
“Nice to meet you,” he ground out.
Too afraid to say anything, I bobbed my head in response.
I’d never been good at making conversation with anyone, let alone boys with perfectly symmetrical faces whose tone of voice could best be described as hostile.
“All right, Blake. We’re heading out to dinner with Rachel and Waverly,” George said, turning to his son, “so keep an eye on Isabel. We’ll be back in an hour or two, and if you want me to even consider letting you go to the party tonight, you’d better behave.”
“Fine.”
“We’ll meet you at the grill?” Rachel asked, at last extracting her car keys from the depths of her paint-stained purse.
“You lead the way!” George said, taking Chloe’s hand in his.
As Rachel and I pulled out of the driveway, the couple next door hopped into the front of a cute little silver sedan parked in front of their house. I watched in the rearview mirror as their son stood on the front porch, sighing in annoyance as Isabel tried to climb on top of his shoulders and grab a fistful of his dark hair.
I might’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, but at least I was going to have more fun tonight than Blake Hamilton was.
© Kate Marchant 2022
Table of Contents
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Float Sample Chapter
Landmarks
Cover
Half Title Page
Title Page
Table of Contents
Dedication
Body Matter
Acknowledgments
Contributors
Copyright Page
Kate Marchant, Whistleblower
