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Cam.

Standing by the window—backlit by the sunset and looking like the biggest tomboy I’d seen in years with that well-tailored navy blazer over a white t-shirt and dark jeans that fit her like they'd been custom-made—was the Fangs captain who’d ruined my day yesterday. Her hair was down, falling in waves past her shoulders, and she'd clearly put in effort because she looked...

Fuck.

She looked unfairly hot.

I hated everything about that fact.

She turned when she heard us come in, and I watched her eyes track over me. Down, then up, lingering for just a second too long before she caught herself.

Good. I wanted her to look. I wanted her to see exactly what she'd dismissed as Instagram. Nothing should threaten an attractive girl more than another attractive girl who had her shit together. And I did.

"Harper, right?” she said, her voice carefully neutral. "Thanks for coming."

"My friends didn't really give me a choice." I moved past her to the kitchen, accepting the wine glass Trish handed me. "But I'm here. So. Let's get this over with."

Cam's jaw tightened. I watched the muscle jump, watched her visibly gather herself.

"I want to apologize," she said, the words sounding like they were being dragged out of her by force. "For what I said in the tunnel. It was out of line. You didn't deserve that."

I took a sip of wine, letting the silence stretch. Waited.

"Is this the part where you blame a bad day?" I asked finally.

"No." Cam's eyes met mine, and I hated how direct her gaze was. How steady. "I was having a great day. Best game of my season."

"Then what's your excuse for being an asshole?"

Someone—Mia, probably—made a small noise of distress. I ignored it.

Cam's expression didn't change. "I don't have one. I saw you on your phone and I made assumptions. Judgments. I was wrong."

"Wow. Bet that hurt to say." I tilted my head. "Did you practice in the mirror? Work on your humble face? Because it's very convincing. Very authentic. Oh, wait, sorry. Authenticity's not really your brand, is it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Forget it." I smiled, all gleaming teeth and glee. "Apology accepted. Are we done? Can I go home now?"

"Dinner's almost ready," Isla said brightly, in that way people do when they're trying to diffuse tension and failing spectacularly. "Why don't we all sit down?"

We moved into the dining room, a beautiful table set for six, candles lit, everything elegant and perfect because of course it was. I ended up across from Cam since the universe hated me, with Mia on my right, her hand on my arm in warning.

Trish brought out some kind of pasta dish that smelled incredible, and for a few minutes, we all focused on food and small talk and pretending this wasn't the most uncomfortable dinner party in the history of dinner parties.

Then Cam reached for the wine bottle and refilled her glass before holding it up, offering it to me.

"Thank you, Captain Miserable," I said sweetly, holding out my glass.

"You're welcome, Instagram," she replied, her voice unbroken as she topped me off.

"Those are not terms of endearment," Isla said, looking between us with concern.

"They're not meant to be," I said, taking a long sip of wine.

Then I thought about it, really thought about it, and decided I had more to say on the matter.

"Actually, wait,” I continued, setting my glass down with more force than necessary, "since we're on the subject—you called me Instagram like it was an insult. Like I'm shallow for posting on social media. But you know what's actually shallow? Having a completely fake online presence. Your entire Instagram is professionally managed PR nonsense. Basketball highlights and charity events and canned captions about teamwork. There's nothing real there. No personality. No life. Just a brand."