“You’ve never played a musical instrument? Not even, like, ‘Chopsticks’ on the piano?” Olive asked, her eyes wide. We were sitting on a brocade couch against one of the light yellow walls in Tristan’s living room as dozens of kids talked and laughed and flirted around us. The air was cool, thanks to the breeze moving through the wide windows, and the steady hum of conversation filled me from the inside out. Olive had been right about the interior of the house being just as impressive as the outs...ide. The whole place smelled of wood polish and coconut sunscreen, like some kind of upscale beach resort. All the furniture was antique and perfectly maintained, with colorful cushions and whimsically mismatched pillows. Across the room stood a massive fireplace with a single, mosaic tile vase at the center of its mantel. There were no other knickknacks, no stacks of magazines, no family pictures. Clearly Tristan’s parents kept it simple. I hadn’t see Tristan or Krista yet. Darcy stood near the sliding doors to the patio, flirting with Joaquin, which was good.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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