She grinned as she added her selection to her cart. Finally. Their fledgling project had a name. A word waiting to be reclaimed. One that beat in time with the thump-thump of her heart.

Shameless.

Chapter twenty

CLARA WHEATON HAD experienced her fair share of embarrassment. She’d tripped down staircases in front of her peers, used the wrong French pronoun when addressing a native speaker, and once accidentally screamed “abort” when she ran into an ex-boyfriend at a Manhattan bodega.

Having endured so much worse, she decided not to let her little “living room rehearsal” with Josh ruin their strange, unnameable bond.

She needed him. Professionally now as well as personally. She would simply redraw some boundaries between them. No harm. No foul. It would probably be a good idea to stop getting off to the memories of him stroking himself. Just a thought.

In a desperate attempt to return to her comfort zone and get to know the performers and crew they’d hired over the course of the week, Clara convinced Josh they should host a barbecue in Everett’s backyard.

Entertaining was a skill set ingrained in Wheaton women, practically from birth. Clara could fold napkins in fourteen distinct shapes. That skill did not come in handy in this situation.

In an effort to appear laid back and unfussy, she’d purchased red Solo cups and rented card tables and folding chairs. She’d even gone so far as to allow Josh to write potluck on the invitations.

“No one our age can show up to a party empty-handed without feeling like an asshole,” he’d said. “At least let them bring beer.”

Clara had consoled herself by making a plethora of dips to accommodate any and all dietary preferences. She was still the hostess, and after the spectacle she’d made of herself at casting, this was her chance to make friends. To show them all she wasn’t a boss or a banker, but one of them. With delicious appetizers and stimulating conversation.

As the start time of their party neared, Josh came out of his room in a cheesy Hawaiian shirt.

“Are you seriously wearing that?” She didn’t know why she bothered to ask. She stirred fresh raspberries into a bowl of punch.

“Sure am.” Josh stole a piece of fruit before she could swat him away and popped it into his mouth. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

Clara straightened the full skirt of her vintage dress. It had a halter neck. She’d thought it was charming. “You don’t like it?”

“No, I like it.” He let his gaze trail down her form. “But it’s white. At a backyard barbecue. With red punch.”

Clara frowned. She hadn’t considered that. “Perhaps I could wear my apron during the meal?” She pulled a pile of gingham and flounces out of the closet and held the material up for his inspection.

“That seems on brand.” He turned toward the fridge and Clara noticed a Band-Aid across his temple.

She stood on her tiptoes to inspect the bruised area. “What happened here?” He probably hadn’t thought to apply an antiseptic.

“Nothing.” Josh pulled away. “Just clumsy.”

The doorbell rang.

“They’re here early.” She wrung her hands. “I haven’t put the place cards out on the table yet.”

Josh steered her toward the door by her shoulders. “You go and greet our guests. I’ll set the place cards.”

Clara dumped the paper triangles with each person’s name written in calligraphy into his cupped hands and hurried to the door.

Naomi stood on the doorstep, along with a handful of other cast and crew members that Clara recognized but didn’t know by name. Naomi pressed a large plastic veggie tray into Clara’s arms. “I don’t cook and I don’t chop.”

“I don’t blame you.” Frankly, the idea of Naomi wielding a knife was terrifying. “Thanks for coming. This is perfect.” Clara pointed to the door that led out back. “Party’s through there.”

Clara collected a few other food items as guests in flip-flops and tank tops snaked by, introducing themselves and thanking her for the invitation. The crowd grew larger than she’d originally accounted for. Good thing she had plenty of food.

After some last-minute prep, Clara joined the rest of the group in the yard. Despite the music playing, the scene had not achieved the air of jovial camaraderie she’d hoped to inspire. She noticed with bemusement that a few of the guys had turned her place cards into paper footballs. Oh well. At least they’d put them to use. She made her way over to where Josh and Naomi stood in a corner talking. With more than her typical nonchalance, Josh’s ex handed him something small and black, smoothly, the way Clara’s dad passed a tip to the valet.

Clara caught only the tail end of the sentence that accompanied the covert gesture. “. . . that’s got my stuff and everything from Ginger.”

Josh shoved the item into his pocket when he noticed her approach. “All done in the kitchen?” He turned his dimples to high beam.

“Uh, yeah. Everything okay out here?” Clara’s brain flipped through a dozen explanations for that handoff. Not the least ridiculous of which was that Naomi had passed Josh some kind of electronic key to a hidden sex dungeon. But what kind of “stuff” did one keep on a key? More likely it was a flash drive of some kind which was . . . only slightly less disconcerting. It’s none of your business anyway, a prim voice in her head reminded her.

“I think we’re off to a bit of a slow start.” Josh frowned at the tepid gathering.

Now that he mentioned it, the party wasn’t exactly lively. Most of their guests looked as uncomfortable as Clara felt.

“You need to encourage interaction,” Naomi said. “Half these people don’t know one another. You’ve got a bunch of strangers together and is that Shania Twain playing from your phone?” She stared at Clara accusingly. “No wonder it’s awkward.”

Who doesn’t like ‘Man! I Feel Like A Woman!’? “Ooh. I have an idea. I’ve got a list of questions, originally developed by Marcel Proust to rouse meaningful conversation, in my room. I could grab those—”

“No,” Josh and Naomi said in unison.

Josh turned down the music and called the guests to attention. “How about a round of old-school Never Have I Ever?”

A couple people exchanged sly smiles. Others laughed and moved to top off their drinks.

“You’re on, Darling,” a woman who’d introduced herself as Stacy said. Her date, one of the place card abusers, whooped and drained his beer before punting it on the ground.

“Adult performers love Never Have I Ever because it gives them a chance to brag about all the sex they’ve had,” Naomi explained as she led Clara over to the table to play.

Interesting. Clara had played the game a few times at camp. She knew that more often than not the questions centered on illicit activities. Though she had to imagine this crowd defined illicit differently than the counselors of Camp Sparrow.

Still, drinking games were a good idea. A social lubricant would set everyone at ease. She poured herself a glass of punch and joined the fray.

“All right, everyone. Let’s play with both hands up, and the final person standing can shotgun a beer at the end of the round. Last time we played with the rule that you had to drink for everything you’d done, the whole party ended up trashed.” Josh smirked. “I’ll start. Never have I ever fucked both members of a married couple.”

His ex dropped a finger along with a few others. Clara lowered her eyebrows before anyone noticed her surprise.

“Never have I ever come so hard I passed out,” Stacy said. Many more fingers fell.

Clara shifted her weight from side to side. She had never considered that possibility. How . . . ?

“Never have I ever fucked ten times in one day.”

Even Josh had lowered a finger on that one. But . . . that defied science. She wanted to call a doctor.

“Never have I ever been offered a million dollars for a one-night stand.”

Only Naomi lowered a finger on that one.

Clara turned to her. “Are you serious?”

“I didn’t take it,” Naomi assured her.

“Never have I ever turned down a million dollars,” the next player said.

Naomi flashed him the middle finger, conveniently the only one remaining up on her right hand.

All heads turned to Clara for her turn. “Umm. Never have I ever broken a bone?”

“You mean like a boner?” Stacy bent a finger halfway down. “Like breaking someone’s dick during sex? ’Cause I’ve totally done that.”

Clara forced herself not to recoil at that mental image. “No, I meant like a regular bone.” She held up her arm and mimed wearing a sling.

Stacy deflated. “Oh.”

Naomi took her turn. “Never have I ever fucked a celebrity.”

“How are we defining celebrity?”

“B list and above,” Naomi clarified.

“Damn. Close but no cigar,” said Stacy’s date. “Never have I ever fucked a world leader.”

Most people had one hand left up or less. Clara’s ten fingers stood out like a neon sign announcing her as an outcast. A couple people looked at her with arched eyebrows.