As she prattles on, a snort escapes me and I quickly cover my face and pretend to cough. Somehow your daughter’s bed fits two.

Reagan answers with a broad grin. “It’s not bad. More comfortable than I had expected.”

“Okay, good. I was afraid you wouldn’t sleep well.”

“Mom, you know I’m sleeping well. I talked to you yesterday. And the day before. And the day before . . . ,” Reagan patiently says, but I catch the note of exasperation.

“I know, dear.” Rachel pats her shoulder. “I have to go now. The caterers need some direction.” With that, Reagan’s mom sails off like a wisp of smoke in the air, swift but graceful.

Reagan leans forward. “Excuse her. I’m an only child and she’s a little overprotective. And high-strung. We’re weaning her off her antianxiety medication.” In the next breath she starts to ask, “Are you hungry? Because we can go over there and—”

“Reagan!” a man’s voice booms, cutting in.

Reagan’s eyes light up and she grabs my hand. “Oh, come meet my dad!” I can barely keep up with her as she takes off toward the house at a brisk, excited pace. She’s more like her mother than she wants to admit. The only time she slows down is when Grant appears out of nowhere to hand each of us a drink. “Ladies,” he says with a curt bow, and then disappears as quickly as he came, giving Reagan a quick wink as he turns. One sip tells me it’s loaded with Jack and I’m relieved. There’s been an edge lingering at my nerves since leaving the hospital today.

Reagan continues on, cutting through a crowd of guys—grinning at them as we pass—until she reaches the covered patio area near the house, where a giant man with a gray, neatly trimmed beard and round belly—her father, I presume—stands next to Connor.

“Hi, Daddy!” Reagan squeals, leaping into his arms.

He lifts her off the ground, chuckling as she places a kiss on his cheek. “There’s my baby girl.”

I slide into Connor’s outstretched arm for a hug as I watch Reagan and her dad, a twinge of envy sparking in my chest.

“You look beautiful,” Connor murmurs, placing a chaste kiss on my lips.

“Thank you. You look great too.” And he does. He’s always dressed well, but now he’s wearing dress pants and a crisp white dress shirt. As he smiles at me with that dimpled grin, air slowly leaves my chest in relief. I’m noticing I’m more relaxed when Connor is around. He just has an air about him. Easy, calm, supportive.

This is right.

“How was the hospital today?”

I tilt my head side to side as if I’m undecided. “Good. Hard but good.”

He gives my forearm a light squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine. You’ll do great.”

I force a smile as I turn back to Reagan and her father, glad that someone has confidence in me.

“How has your first month been? Nothing too wild, I hope?” Reagan’s dad asks her.

“Nope, my roommate keeps me in check.” Reagan turns to point to me. “This is Livie Cleary, Daddy.”

The man turns to regard me with kind blue eyes. He offers his hand. “Hello, Livie. I’m Robert.”

“Hi, sir . . .Robert. I’m Livie Cleary.” I fumble over my words. A nervous giggle escapes and I shake my head. “Sorry, Reagan just told you that.”

Robert chuckles. I see his eyes shift to a focal point behind me. “Oh, thank you,” he says, reaching to accept a drink.

A tall, dark figure appears to take a spot next to Robert. One with impossibly long eyelashes and piercing brown eyes that make my heart stutter. “You’re welcome,” he says politely.

Ashton is always gorgeous, even in the most basic of clothes. But tonight he has clearly respected Coach’s dress code. His hair is styled in a way that looks neat and tidy while still sexy. Instead of jeans and sneakers, he’s wearing black tailored pants and dress shoes. Instead of a threadbare T-shirt, he’s in a midnight-blue shirt, perfectly fitted and pressed. Watching him take a sip of his drink, I see the worn leather band peeking through. That’s the only thing that resembles the Ashton I’ve known up until now. He looks like he just stepped off the pages of GQ magazine.

And I don’t know if it’s because of this transformation or because I’ve finally accepted that I’m attracted to Ashton, but the discomfort that I’ve always felt around him is beginning to fade—or morph—into something entirely different and not at all unpleasant. Although still completely distracting.

Robert’s jovial voice interrupts my thoughts. “I can feel it, boys. We’ve got a winning team this year.” He slaps a large hand over his captain’s shoulder.

Ashton responds with a genuine smile, full of respect. One I’ve never seen on him before.

Turning to me, Robert says, “So, Livie, you’re one of Princeton’s newest crop along with my daughter.”

My eyes meet Ashton’s before I manage to turn and focus on Robert and it makes my heart jump. “Yes, sir,” I say, clearing my voice.

“And how are you liking it so far?” His gaze shifts to my waist. And that’s when I remember that Connor is standing with his arm loosely around me. “None of these scoundrels bothering you, I hope?”

I smile shyly at Connor, who gives me a sly grin back. “No scoundrels,” I reply, sipping the last of my drink. How did I finish it that fast? Before I can stop myself, my eyes flicker to Ashton to see his focus settled on my chest. I instinctively cross my arms, earning a wide grin from him as he brings his glass to his lips. Maybe one scoundrel.

“Good. They’re fine young men,” Robert says with an affirming nod. Then we hear a holler as Ty stalks around back in his kilt, and Robert adds, “Maybe a bit wild at times, but then what college kid isn’t. Right, Grant?”

I swear, either Grant has empty-drink radar or he’s watching us like a hawk, because he suddenly appears from behind to hand Reagan and me fresh Jack and Cokes. “Right, Coach.”

“No alcohol in that drink, right, Cleaver?” Robert’s full eyebrow is halfway up his forehead with the question.

“Not a drop,” Grant says, his goofy grin replaced with a mask of sincerity.

“Of course not, Daddy,” Reagan echoes sweetly.

Robert looks down at his doting daughter, who can pull off the innocent, virginal schoolgirl act better than any real one I’ve ever met. Better than . . . well, me, I guess. I can’t tell if he believes her. All he’d have to do is lean in and sniff her drink to know that it’s more booze than mixer. But he doesn’t press it. “So what will you be majoring in, Livie?”

“Molecular biology.”

By the way his eyebrows spike, I can tell he looks impressed.

“Livie’s going into pediatrics,” Connor chirps proudly.

“Good for you. And what made you choose Princeton?”

“My father went here.” The answer rolls off my tongue with ease. It’s as good an answer as any. In truth, I could easily have gone to Harvard, or Yale. I had acceptance letters from all of them, given my school counselors made me apply. But there was never any debate over which one I’d choose.

Robert nods as if expecting that answer. I guess he hears that a lot. It’s not uncommon for several generations to attend Princeton. His brow creases as he ponders this. “What year?”

“1982.”

“Huh . . . I was ’81.” His hand moves to scratch his beard as if he’s deep in thought. “What did you say your last name was again?”

“Cleary.”

“Cleary . . . Cleary . . .” Robert repeats over and over as he rubs his beard with his fingers, and I can tell he’s racking his brain. I take another long sip of my drink as I watch. There’s no way he knows my dad, but I like that he’s trying.

“Miles Cleary?”

I choke on a mouthful of liquid and my eyes widen in surprise.

Robert seems proud of himself. “Well, how about that!”

“Seriously? You knew him? I mean—” I try to temper my excitement.

“Yes.” He nods slowly, as if memories are quickly filling his brain. “Yes, I did. We were both Tiger Inn members. Went to a lot of the same parties. Irish fellow, right?”