My thoughts come to a screeching halt as the newcomer straightens and a prickle of awareness brushes the nape of my neck. Like a precursor or a warning, my body runs immediately hot then cold. No. I push out a slow, calming breath. He’s just tall, that’s all. Broad with dark hair. Like a million other men.
“How you going?”
And so what if that was the lazy cadence of an Australian accent I just heard? Australians are like sheep—you find them everywhere!
“Oh, I’m just peachy,” Jenner responds, suddenly all twinkly and fluttery, which doesn’t help settle my thoughts or stop the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight like pins.
The stranger turns slightly, and my heart pounds so hard it actually hurts. My body reads the situation far better than my brain as I reach out for the back of a nearby chair, my legs suddenly turning to elastic bands.
He has a one-of-a-kind profile, the likes of which Michelangelo would’ve wept to carve. A proud aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw, the rasp of bristles almost audible as he absently rubs a knuckle there. A million thoughts explode in my head, the most prominent of which shouldn’t be did he ever have such dark whiskers back then?
My God. This cannot be happening.
I must be having some psychotic break because Wilder’s father cannot be standing here in my coffee shop like this stupid conversation has somehow summoned him.
The radio hums in the background, and the chime of a spoon sounds against a cup. The familiar sounds should be comforting, yet I can barely process them. I thought this would never happen, even if I’d imagined it a million times. That poise and dignity I thought I’d have, the sense of having the upper hand? Those scenarios I’d imagined didn’t include clinging to a chair.
I’d be ready, I’d told myself.
I’d be over him.
Oh, the lies we tell ourselves.
2
Kennedy
OF ALL THE COFFEE JOINTS
I am over him.
Because anything else is just ridiculous.
I must be in shock. That must be why I can’t pry my fingers from the chair back, watching from somewhere outside myself as Jenner leans both forearms against the counter like he has cleavage to flaunt. But Jenner has bigger pecs than I have boobs, so therefore better cleavage, I guess.
“I know what you’re thinking.” His Texas accent is suddenly sawmill gravy thick as his titillated gaze slides my way. “He’s not gonna fit.”
I mean, yeah, that’s what I thought that first time, but—
I close my eyes and swallow, pushing the inappropriate away in exchange for something much more frightening. Jenner means the pixie house—that Roman is too big for the pixie house. The bad news just keeps on coming because of course he’s my vacationer.
Oh, God. The man I’ve thought long and hard about (don’t judge) will be staying in the vicinity of, well, me.
“Don’t you dare,” I mutter, sensing Jenner’s attention again. I need to take control of the situation, but how can I when my legs still feel like Jell-O, and now I can’t feel my feet? Why can’t this numbness extend to my brain because I know where Jenner is going with this.
“That’s what he said.” He winks exaggeratedly, his gaze flickering over Roman like all his Christmases and birthdays have arrived out of season and today.
Roman’s laughter is deep, the sound of his voice another sting. “You know what they say. Where there’s a will, there’s always a way.”
“I could be that Will.” A lust-struck Jenner slaps a hand over his name badge, causing the other man’s good-humoured gaze to flick my way. His eyes are so blue that the lack of recognition in them feels like a bucket of ice water rushing over my head, as his gaze seems to ask is he always like this?
But the answer is yes. Jenner is always like this and frequently worse. Not that I say any of this, folding in my lips against an explosion of . . . what the actual fuck? That’s it? That’s all I get? I bear you a child after spending approximately twenty-seven months not being able to see my toes, and you don’t even give me a second glance? But why would he recognise me? It’s not like I can say I’m not that girl anymore because I was never her in the first place. I doubt I’ve ever looked as good as I did that night. I’ve certainly never behaved as recklessly. But I spoke, thought, too soon because his attention doubles back at the exact same moment I decide I don’t want his recognition anyway.
He looks . . . stunned. Totally stunned, but then a dozen reactions flicker and fade across his face. It seems over in less time than it takes to blink, yet I still feel aggrieved. How is it he gets to be the one struggling to process this moment? How is he the one who’s not supposed to know how to feel? He hasn’t suffered rejection, hurt, grief, and pain. His dreams weren’t recalibrated overnight.