When we were in middle school, he’d written a letter to the president, so eloquent, so hopeful, so touching, that he and his family were invited to the Thanksgiving ceremony at the White House.
In high school, Cruz was the quarterback who’d led Fairhope High to the state finals—the only time the school had ever gotten that far.
He was the only Fairhope resident to ever attend an Ivy League school.
The Great Hope of Fairhope (Yup. I went there with the puns. Deal with it).
The one who helped Diana Hudgens give birth in her truck on a stormy Christmas Eve and earned a picture in the local newspaper, holding the crying baby with a smile, blood dripping along his muscular forearms.
It didn’t help that upon graduation from college, Cruz had followed in his retired father’s footsteps and become the town’s beloved family physician.
He was, for all appearances, holier than the water Jesus walked upon, more virtuous than Mother Teresa, and, perhaps most maddening of all, hotter than Ryan Gosling.
In. Drive.
Tall, lean, loose-limbed, and in possession of cheekbones that, frankly, should be outlawed.
He even had a pornstache he was unaware made him extra sexy. There wasn’t a woman within the town’s limit who didn’t want to see her juices on that ’stache.
Even his attire of a blind, senior CPA, consisting of khaki pants, pristine white socks, and polo shirts, couldn’t take away from the fact that the man was ride-able to a fault.
Luckily—and I use that term loosely because there was nothing lucky about my life—I was so appalled by Cruz’s general existence that I was pretty much immune to his allure.
I stopped at their table, leaning a hip against the worn-out booth and popping my gum extra loudly to hide the nervous hiccup from being touched by that kid. Whenever the occasional urge to speak up for myself rose, I remembered my job prospects in this town were slimmer than Gabby’s waist. Raising a thirteen-year-old wasn’t cheap, and besides, moving back in with my parents was not feasible. I did not get along with Momma Turner.
“Top of the mornin’ to you. How can I help Fairhope’s Bold and Beautiful?”
Gabriella scrunched her button nose in distaste. She wore casual skinny jeans, an expensive white cashmere shawl, and understated jewelry, giving her the chic appearance of effortlessness (and possibly French).
“How are you, Nessy?” she asked without moving her lips much.
“Well, Gabriella, every morning I wake up on the wrong side of capitalism, I’m pretty sure my car’s about to die, and my back’s not getting any younger. So all in all, pretty good, thanks for asking. Yourself?”
“I just got a big contract with a cosmetic company that will probably gain my blog a lot of traction, so really good.”
“Wonderful!” I cooed, doing my best not to notice Cruz.
Gabriella did that thing where she posted pictures and videos of herself on Instagram, trying out new products, making you believe you could look like her if you used them, too.
She dragged her plate across the table like there was a dead rat on it.
“Look, I don’t want to be that person, but I don’t think my turkey burger is…you know…”
“Cooked?” I curved an eyebrow. Or turkey…
“Organic,” she whispered, shifting uncomfortably.
I had a Sherlock on my hands.
Did she think she was at The Ivy? She should be happy her lettuce was washed and that the bun didn’t come from a can.
“It’s probably not,” I agreed.
Her eyebrows slammed together. “Well, I specifically asked for organic.”
“And I specifically asked for a winning lottery ticket and a hot date with Benicio del Toro. Looks like we’re both having a bad day, hon.” I popped my gum again.
Cruz was quiet, as he usually was when I was around. The elephant in the room was that Gabriella Holland was my baby sister Trinity’s best friend. And my sweet baby sister was engaged to Wyatt—Cruz’s older brother.