Paxton tries to tell his roommates about his encounters with this incredibly sexy, successful woman.

“You’re so full of shit, man,” Devin says. 

“I am 100% serious.” They’re drinking beer out back behind their apartment, watching their other roommates, Randall and Terrance, attempt to build some sort of makeshift bonfire in the yard. Their landlord would be so pissed if he could see them.

Paxton had told them about the wedding hookup, and they were skeptical then, but they definitely don’t believe him now, when he tries to tell them about his second run-in with this businesswoman who is apparently Somebody in this town.

“So this woman just asks you out for a drink, right in the middle of a classroom in the middle of the day?” Devin laughs, like it’s the most unbelievable thing he’s ever heard.

“Yes,” Paxton says. “That’s exactly what happened.”

Terrance steps back, grabs a lighter and piece of paper, and drops it onto the pile of wet twigs and newspapers they’ve surrounded with a circle of discarded bricks they’d found in the woods behind the apartment complex. “Here we go!” the paper falls onto the twigs, sizzles out into nothing.

“There’s no way this is going to work tonight, after the rain,” Devin says. He’s sprawled in a tailgate chair beside Paxton on the small concrete slab they call a back porch. His camouflage rain jacket makes him look more like he’s going hunting tonight. He grabs his guitar from where it’s propped in the doorway, and the cheap tailgate chair almost tumbles over. Devin settles himself again, the guitar resting awkwardly in his lap. He strums a few cords, starts to sing a truly terrible song he’s just made up: Paxton can’t get laid, so he made up a story…la la la…” He chuckles. “I think I’ve got a hit.”

Paxton shouldn’t have even bothered trying to tell them. Not a gentlemanly thing to do anyway. But the whole experience was so improbable, so insane, that he had to tell someone. It wasn’t even twelve hours ago, and it’s already starting to feel like it never happened. After the first time with her, he’d almost convinced himself that it hadn’t really happened, especially when she never called him even though he’d made sure to program his number into her phone when she was in the bathroom.

Ah, well. If he has to leave Ellen Point, at least he got to go out with a bang. His room is mostly packed up now, and he’s got an ad out for a sublease on his bedroom. It’s a furnished room—crappy furniture, but whatever—so it shouldn’t be too hard to rent out to a transfer student. His roommates had groaned when he told them he wouldn’t be coming back after Christmas break. He’d lost his scholarship, and he can’t afford to be there without it. The catering gig is hit or miss, and barely gives him enough money for gas and groceries. His parents don’t know he’s coming home yet. The only one in his family he’s told is his sister, TessAnne. If his mom knew, she’d probably try to sell a kidney on the black market to get him the money to stay. She’s proud of him, but he doesn’t deserve it. He’d let the whole thing with the accident and Aaron Baxter get to him, and when he came back to school in the fall there were several critical weeks when he didn’t do anything but drink and party his cares away. Classes were missed, tests were failed, and now he has to deal with the consequences. He got back on top of things, but it was too late. His last class is tomorrow, Thursday, but he won’t head home until the weekend. Enjoy a few more days of this town before he sees it in his rearview mirror. Then, he’ll drive away with a car full of boxes and the memories of a few stolen moments with a woman who may be a big name but is mostly a mystery to him.

Later, in bed alone, he looks up her name on his phone. Plenty of photos, plenty of news articles. A whole Wikipedia page. Ingrid Wyatt is 33 years old, eleven years his senior. She’s the younger child of Willard Wyatt, the Georgia native who attended Ellen Point University and decided to start his business right here in town after graduation. No mention of her mother or her presumed other siblings. Willard is president of Wyatt McIntyre Birch Real Estate Group, but there’s the implication, from everything he reads, that Ingrid is calling the shots. There are photos of her from the local paper. Six months ago, there was a feature on her in Georgia Trend magazine. In the spread, she’s wearing a blazer over a white dress and pearls. Blond hair and red lips. Classic Southern, but make it business. The Wyatt McIntyre Birch empire is expanding through the Southeast, and could go nationwide.

In other words: She’s a big fucking deal.

And she’d picked him. Plucked him from obscurity and showed him a great time. And he doesn’t know why.

He falls asleep with her picture on his screen, imagining her in the pearls and nothing else.