I feel my head bobbing up and down.

“Friendly, easygoing.” He chuckles lightly, and I see a hint of something like chagrin pass over his weathered face. “We dated the same girl for a short period of time.” Another chuckle, and his creased cheeks flush with whatever memory that brought up. One that I’m sure I don’t want to hear about. “Then he met that gorgeous dark-haired gal and we didn’t see much of him anymore.” His eyes narrow just a touch as he peers at my face, studying my features. “Looking at you, I’d say he married her. You look like her.”

I smile and nod, averting my gaze to the ground for a moment.

“That is so cool, Livie!” Reagan squeals, her eyes wide with excitement. “We should have them over next time they’re in town!”

Robert is already nodding in agreement with his daughter. “Yes, I’d love to reconnect with Miles.”

“Umm . . .” Just like that, my brief balloon of excitement is deflated by reality. Yes, it would have been great to see my dad and Robert together. To have my parents over here. To watch my dad’s easy laugh. But that’s not going to happen. Ever. I feel Connor’s arm squeeze me, pulling me tightly to him. He’s the only one who knows. Now everyone will know. “Actually, he and my mom died in a car accident when I was eleven.”

There’s a standard “face” for that news when you deliver it. Shock, followed by some paling of the skin, followed by a lifted brow. Usually a single, small nod. I’ve seen it a thousand times. Robert’s face follows precedent to a T, with an additional why-didn’t-you-know-that-about-your-roommate glare in his daughter’s direction. It’s not her fault, though. I never told her. I didn’t avoid telling her; it just didn’t come up in conversation. “I’m . . . I’m sorry to hear that, Livie,” he offers gruffly.

I try to console him with a gentle smile and reassuring words. “It’s okay, really. It was a long time ago. I’m . . . good.”

“Well . . .” There’s that awkward silence, the reason why I generally avoid sharing this about myself in groups of people. Then Grant, who’s still lingering, saves the day by switching topics to the upcoming race, freeing me from being the center of attention. Freeing me to glance up at Ashton for the first time since the conversation about my parents began.

I expect that standard face. But I don’t find it there. I find his eyes locked on me with the most peculiar expression on it. A tiny smile touches his lips; lightness floats in his gaze.

There’s no other way to describe it other than . . .

Peace.

“So this is what all the fuss is about.”

Grinning proudly, Connor clasps my hand as we walk along Prospect Avenue—or “the Street,” as it’s known by everyone in Princeton—and up the steps to the impressive Tudor-style building with brown clovers decorating the front. It’s Thursday night. A line already snakes outside the entrance, but Connor flashes his club ID card and gets us past with no trouble.

Pushing the heavy door open for me to pass, he gestures dramatically toward the interior. “Welcome to the best eating club!” Sounds of laughter and music hit me immediately.

“I imagine you all say that about your respective clubs,” I tease, taking in the floor-to-ceiling dark wood paneling and antique furniture as we move through. Last Saturday, after Robert had confirmed that my dad was a member here, Connor promised to give me a tour. My nerves have been swirling ever since. “It’s nice.” I inhale deeply, as if the act will somehow help me sense Miles Cleary’s presence lingering within the walls.

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Connor smiles and holds a muscular arm out. “Tour guide at your service.”

Connor shows me around the various floors of the newly expanded and renovated club, highlighting the stunning dining hall, a library, and an upstairs lounge. He saves the basement for last—an open, dimly lit garagelike space called “the taproom.”

“It’s not too bad in here, now,” Connor says, clasping my hand as we take the stairs down. “By midnight, we won’t be able to move. This is the biggest and best taproom at Princeton.” He grins, adding, “And I’m not just saying that because I’m a member.”

“Not doubting you,” I murmur as I take in the scene. Plenty of laughing, smiling students—both male and female—mill around with beer in hand. A few are carrying plastic swords and masquerade ball masks. Connor says they were likely at a theme party elsewhere earlier.

The only furniture I can see are a few large green-and-white wooden tables with the eating club’s logo. Somehow, I’m not surprised to find Ty at one, yelling to someone as he pours beer from a pitcher into plastic cups laid out in two pyramid shapes on opposite ends of the table.

“Hey, buddy!” Ty slaps Connor on the back with his free hand. Dipping his head toward me, he bellows in his fake Scottish accent, “Irish!” making me giggle. There’s just something about Ty that’s so easy. He’s crass, loud, and sometimes downright perverted, but you can’t help but like him. I can picture him getting along well with Kacey. Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable around him. In some strange, kilt-flashing way, Ty reminds me of home.

Connor gives Ty’s shoulders a tight squeeze. “We all come here to eat most days but Ty practically lives here. He’s part of the officer corps. Probably why this place is so wild. I don’t know how he passes a single class.”

Jutting his chin toward a textbook that’s laid out open on a chair nearby, Ty’s face is a mask of confusion. “I don’t know what you mean. I get some of my best work done here.” Tossing the empty pitcher to the ground, Ty holds up two Ping-Pong balls. “Ready?”

Connor shrugs, looking to me. “You in?”

Scanning the table again and the balls, I ask, “What is this . . . beer pong?”

Ty bangs his pint glass down to announce with a grin full of mischief, “A Beirut virgin! I love it!” He jabs a pointed finger at me. “Never call this beer pong. And no wussing out or I’ll kick that beautiful butt through the door!”

“Why do I have the feeling that I’m screwed,” I grumble, taking in all those cups of beer. But I also know that Ty’s threats are not idle, and trying to escape will likely involve humiliation in front of the entire club.

“Crazy Scotsman,” Connor mutters under his breath, but his eyes are twinkling. Roping his arm around my waist, he starts chuckling. “Don’t worry. I’m good at this game. You’re safe with me.”

I give his forearm a light squeeze before he lets go, an ounce of relief washing over me with the reminder. I know I’m safe with Connor. If I were with Ashton, it would be a very different story. He’d probably lose just to get me plastered. Either way, my gulps will be the smallest sips known to mankind.

“What is this, two-on-two? Who’s your partner, Ty?” Connor asks.

“Who do you think?” comes the giddy response a second before a wagging honey-blond ponytail and a grin appears.

“Reagan! Thank God. Save me from this.”

“No can do, roomie.” She pats my back with a lazy hand while accepting a full pint from Grant with the other, shooting him a playful wink. I’m thrilled to see Reagan here tonight. Since the conversation at her parents’ house, she’s been unusually quiet around me. She may be mad at me for not mentioning my parents. I can’t tell and she hasn’t brought it up. But tonight she seems normal, and I’m glad.

Everyone’s here except . . . Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I discreetly survey the room, looking for that tall, dark form.

“He has a big test tomorrow,” Reagan murmurs with a knowing smirk. “He’s not coming.”

“Oh.” I leave it at that, though I can’t ignore the disappointment creeping through me. And then I silently scold myself. I’m here with Connor. Connor. Connor. How many times do I have to repeat that name before it sticks?