“Calm down, Wonder Woman,” I stop her. “I’ll help you get her there, but I’m just going to stick around if you don’t mind.”
“Let me find Kai.” She dashes back to the party, and I hope she doesn’t take too long. Adair is practically snoring in my arms. A couple partygoers pass us on their way out to the pool, eyeing me curiously. No one stops to ask if she’s okay or even questions me. Given that half the people here are too drunk to walk, I guess it’s not that weird. Still, I can’t stand to think what might have happened to her if I hadn’t come along. Even though I don’t like Adair, there’s no way I want someone touching her. Not without her consent. Not at all, if I’m being honest. All the times I’d seen this back in New York, the poor choices leading to a blackout were usually voluntary. The guys I knew there didn’t go in for unwilling participation. And fucking with someone’s friend or little sister got you your ass beat—or worse. That’s the code I live by. I don’t have a problem if a girl throws herself at me or if she wants to go. Sex doesn’t have to be some type of religious experience in my book, but this shit isn’t cool.
Poppy reappears with the guy who was with them earlier. He takes one look at Adair and panics. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” I repeat. Drunk people can be so paranoid. “But we should get her somewhere quiet and comfortable. She’s going to have one hell of a headache when she wakes up.”
“Someone did this to her?” Kai asks as they take me to Adair’s car. Poppy digs in Adair’s bag for the keys, and I nearly drop her when they lead me to the Mercedes. At least if I have to put up with these entitled brats I get to drive all these amazing cars.
“This is her car?” I grunt as I get her situated in the front seat. Kai and Poppy pile into the back.
“Technically, it was her mother’s,” Poppy tells me.
That makes more sense. I can’t help wondering if she inherited it—not that it made up for her mom’s death. But it’s a helluva nice way to remember her. The drive to Adair’s house—which is a ludicrously inadequate term for something the size of Versailles—is way too short.
“This is it!” Poppy cries from the backseat when I nearly miss the turn.
“You weren’t kidding earlier,” Kai says. He rolls down his window while I enter the gate access code, so he can hang his head out to stare up the drive.
“Get back in the car,” I order him. The kid is going to fall out of the car if he hangs his body any farther out the window. He manages to get mostly inside but barrages us with awestruck commentary as Poppy gives directions to bypass the main house and go around to the side.
“How many houses does this place have?” I mutter as we pass more and more buildings. My eyes dart over to Adair. She’s slumped against the car door, but she looks fine.
“Oh, that’s the gardener’s shed. This is just a guesthouse. It’s all part of Windfall.”
“Windfall? What the fuck does that mean?”
“This is Windfall, the MacLaine estate,” she explains.
“You name your houses?” Kai asks. I’m glad he said it for me. Rich people must have too much time on their hands.
“Of course.” Poppy sounds as if she can’t find anything wrong with this. “My house is so boring. My father’s English, so he went with Landry Court. He wasn’t even trying.”
“That was Darcy’s house, right? What’s its name?” Kai asks as I park the car near the guest house. It’s bigger than my brownstone in Queens. I can’t imagine why a visitor would need two thousand square feet of their own just for a visit.
“Las Palmas.” I can hear her eyes rolling even though it’s too dark to see. “At least they were a little more creative with their name. Of course, if it was me I’d call it the hen house.”
“The hen house?” I repeat, sure I heard her wrong.
“Yes,” she says indignantly. “It makes sense to name it after Hennie’s. Las Palmas sounds like it belongs in L.A. or Miami.”
I share a look with Kai, who’s helping me carry Adair inside, while Poppy continues our education in the ways of the Valmont elite.
“Hennie’s?
“Hennie’s Hot Chicken. The Palmers own the entire chain. Darcy’s mom is Henrietta Palmer.”
She might as well be speaking in tongues for all I understand of what she just said.
“I’ve never heard of hot chicken,” I say honestly as we haul Adair into a room.
“It’s a Nashville thing,” Poppy explains, supervising the entire process of delivering her best friend to bed. She stuffs a pillow under her head. “Wouldn’t the hen house be cute?”
“I guess,” I say absently. It’s a little surreal to go from a party to a discussion of the merits of estate names, all while caring for a girl I hate.
Kai doesn’t suffer from the same degree of whiplash regarding our circumstances and begins battering her with questions about hot chicken. I barely pay attention. I’m too busy studying the rise and fall of Adair’s chest. There’s no reason to think she’s in danger, but someone has to keep watch.
“Now I’m hungry,” Poppy says. “Let’s go check the kitchen.” She flies from the room like our work here is done, but Kai hesitates at the door.
“Want anything?”
“I want to stay with her,” I tell him.
“Good idea.” He glances toward Adair, his brows furrowing. “She’s going to be okay, right?”
“Yeah.” It’s enough to reassure him, so he takes off after Poppy.
With them both gone, I look uncomfortably around the room. There’s no way I’m climbing into bed beside her. If Adair wakes up,
