Summer of 1959

She wanted to make something abundantly clear—it was imperative for you to understand, you see—that Irene Dalton did not blush. Rather, it was the summer heat, hung heavy in the air and scented with the rows of blooming hydrangeas her mother favoured so, that caused the ever-unpleasant rush of warmth across her face and chest.

It was not because of him.

It was definitely not because of him.

The Dalton estate was the very image of a white-picket-fenced American dream. Upon first sight, it was a daunting, almost looming behemoth of a house. Fitting, you see, for such a wealthy and well-established banker family.

The white colonial-style house stood proud, boasting tall columns that framed the wide front door, complete with a gleaming brass knocker and all. But for all its space, the house was rather homely. Inside, the house was warm and alive. The wood-paneled floors gleamed, but if you looked closely, you could spot faint scratches from the Dalton's eldest son's toy cars or the time their youngest child insisted on tap-dancing her way through the foyer.

Irene Dalton's favourite part of the house was the wrap-around porch that overlooked a beautiful, almost ever-blooming garden of flowers—hydrangeas, as previously imagined—and she spent most of her time sitting in the porch swing, body melded against the cushions, reading a book or writing in one of her many notebooks when the weather allowed it.

She'd been done with school this year a day earlier than her older brother. Saint Helena Grammar School finished their year-end activities earlier than her brother's new elite boarding school, Welton Academy.

On the one hand, Irene had liked being the only Dalton child at home. She had always been doted on, being the family's youngest and only daughter, and for all meaning of the word, incessantly spoiled. Without Charlie home, she had run of the house, free to roam and claim whatever part of the house she pleased. She had made a point, you see, of claiming all her favourite spots before Charlie got home for the summer—the porch swing, the garden bench, the sunny corner of the siting room where the light was just right for reading. These were the places she had often had to fight for when Charlie was home, and winning them without argument (or rather claiming them before he even could) had felt like a small victory.

On the other hand, the house had felt strangely empty without her big brother. Irene would never admit it, for fear that Charlie would make fun of her for actually missing him, but she had missed her louder-than-life brother. She'd missed his footsteps bounding down the stairs, his voice bouncing off the walls as he teased her about something or another. Charlie had a way of filling the space around him, and without him, the house felt a little too big, a little too quiet even for Irene.

The sound of a car horn pulled her out of her thoughts. She sat up, tucking a marker in-between the pages of her current read—a book about tiny people living under the floorboards of an English country house—and peered over the porch railings to see her father's Ford pulling through the estate gates.

"Mama!" She yelled through the open front doors, while standing. "Charlie's home!"

There was no immediate reply. Her mother probably deep somewhere in the house, doing whatever it was that mothers tended to do before all their children were finally home for the summer holidays.

Irene slipped her bare feet into her sandals, making her way down the porch steps quickly, but not quickly enough to look like she was actually eager to see her older brother in the flesh, of course. The gravel crunched beneath her feet as she approached the slowing car.

Its back door flung open before it even came to a full halt, and Charlie—in all his larger-than-life glory—stepped out, looking every bit like he'd stepped right off the cover of a prep school brochure. His tie was loosened though, his blazer slung over his shoulder, and his hair a little messier and longer than it had been before.

Irene faltered a little. She hadn't seen her bother since Easter, and the two, almost three months apart had granted Charlie a noticeable transformation. He stood even taller, his shoulders broader.

"What do they feed you at Welton?" Irene asked, narrowing her eyes at him. He had probably grown a half a foot since she last saw him.

"Good day to you too, baby sis," Charlie shot her a look. "I see Saint Helena hasn't improved your manners much."

Irene flushed, embarrassed. "Hi, I guess."

Charlie grinned then. "Miss me?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Yeah right," he brushed his hair out of his eyes with the exaggerated flair of a movie star. "And to answer your question, they feed us the four pillars of Welton, of course. Travesty, horror, decadence, and excrement."

A car door slammed shut. "Think that sounds a little wrong there, son," Mr. Dalton said pointedly, eyeing his eldest with a stern, yet bemused expression.

"Your ears, Father dearest," Charlie said quickly. "I said, tradition, honor, discipline, and excellence, of course."

Mr. Dalton rolled his eyes at his son's clever wit before turning to his daughter. He cast her a fond smile, patting her on the head. "Your mother's inside, Dolly?"

"Yes, Daddy," Irene smiled up sweetly, always the daddy's girl.

In front of her, Charlie stuck a finger into his mouth while sticking out his tongue, faking a retch. "Baby," he muttered under a fake cough.

Irene glared.

Mr. Dalton turned to him and Charlie quickly fixed his face. "Get your stuff inside and wash up before dinner. You have plenty of time to do so," he said pointedly, knowing that Charlie, being a fifteen-year-old boy, tended to throw the excuse of not having enough time to avoid cleanliness as often as he could "And show Knox to the guest room, alright?"

"Yes, Dad."

It was then that Irene saw him—Knox Overstreet—stepping out from behind the family Ford, his bag slung over one shoulder. He was taller than Irene remembered too—truly, what did they feed the boys there at Welton? His golden-brown hair caught the sunlight in such a way that it was impossible not to notice—not to stare.

Knox Overstreet had been one of Charlie's closest friends for as long as Irene could remember. He'd been over at their house plenty of times before, usually for a quick bite to eat—it was well known that the Dalton house always had food around—and to hang out with Charlie.

Irene had gotten used to his presence over the years, or so she had thought.

He had always been a fixture in their lives, always lingering around the Dalton house during holidays or summer breaks, usually with the same easy grin and a knack for charming anyone in his orbit. But something about him felt different now, though Irene couldn't quite put her finger on what it was. Perhaps it was the way he carried himself, his shoulders a little broader, his movements more self-assured, lax and suave. Or maybe it was the way he looked at her as he rounded the car, his smile tilting into something that felt warmer, more personal.

"Overstreet," Charlie said, tossing his bag onto the ground after their father had left to enter the house, jerking his thumb toward Irene. "You remember by baby sister, right?"

"I'm thirteen, not a baby."

"Of course," Knox said, his smile bright and disarming, eyes twinkling with amusement at Irene's indignant comment that Charlie purposefully ignored. "How could I forget?"

Irene stiffened, suddenly hyperaware of the heat pressing down on her. It was the summer sun, she reminded herself firmly, not anything else. Certainly not the way she swore Knox's eyes lingered for just a second longer than she was prepared for.

"Rini," Knox greeted, the nickname typically reserved for family had somehow extended to Charlie's friends after they had heard him call her that so many times. "You've grown up since the last time I saw you."

Her cheeks burned, though she would surely deny it to her grave. She blamed the sunlight—it was far too perfect, casting a golden glow over him that made it entirely too easy to notice his sharpening jawline and the faint smattering of freckles across his nose.

She crossed her arms and titled her chin up. "And you still talk too much," she said, though her words lacked their usual sharpness. "And I told you to stop calling me Rini."

"Everyone calls you Rini," Charlie pointed out, smirking as he leaned against the Ford. "He's just following the status quo."

"You called me Rini and it stuck. That's not status quo," she argued.

"Fairly sure that's definitely of status quo, no?"

Irene opened her mouth to counter Knox's teasing interjection, but found that she had no words. She faltered, her thoughts tangling as his easy grin and steady gaze threw her completely off balance.

"Rini speechless. That's a first," Charlie mocked, clearing enjoying the moment.

"Shut it, Charles!" Irene snapped back, but it only made him laugh harder.

"Alright, alright," he said, throwing up his hands in surrender. "Stop being such a goof. Knox is staying with us for a few days so don't scare him off. His parents are off doing whatever fancy people do when they're too busy for their kids."

Knox laughed, the sound easy and infectious, and Irene couldn't help but glance at him again. He'd always been handsome in that boy-net-door kind of way, but now there was something about him that felt...grown-up. She wasn't sure she liked it. Or maybe she liked it too much.

"It's no big deal," he said. "Your folks were kind enough to let me crash here."

"You're not crashing. You're in the guest room," Charlie corrected, smirking. "Rini, stop staring and held me carry my stuff, will you?"

"I wasn't staring," Irene snapped, her cheeks burning. "And I'm not your servant."

Charlie rolled his eyes, pushing off the Ford. "Fine, then. Don't help. Just go back to sitting on your fluffy little swing with your precious little book like the bookworm you are while I lug everything in."

"Maybe I will," she shot back, crossing her arms.

"Typical," Charlie muttered dramatically, reaching down to grab his bag off the ground. "Come on, Overstreet. Let's leave her to her bookish habits."

Knox chuckled quietly but followed Charlie toward the porch with their bags in tow. For a second, Irene watched him, catching his eyes as he glanced back.

He smiled at her—just a friendly smile, the kind he'd probably flashed at her a hundred times over the years—but this time, it felt different. There was a warmth to it, an ease that made it impossible to ignore.

It sent an annoying flutter straight through her chest, a sensation so out of place she almost frowned at herself.

It was the heat, she told herself firmly. The heat, the hydrangeas, the weight of summer in the air. Definitely not him. Not Knox Overstreet with his golden-brown hair catching the sunlight or the way he looked so effortless walking up her porch steps, past her porch swing, and into her house like he owned the place. Not the way his voice still carried that smooth, steady charm that could probably talk his way out of anything.

Nope. Definitely not him and whatever this was—whatever weird, fluttery nonsense Knox had sparked—it was nothing.

It had to be nothing.