by Sarah Smith
I swipe a romance novel from the top shelf, tapping my toe along to the beat of the power ballad.
“You’re a Michael Bolton fan I take it?”
I twist my head to the voice and am greeted with a pleasant visual. Tall, broad, blond, late-twenties, with a killer pair of blue eyes and an equally lethal smile.
Heat makes its way up my cheeks and I smile to myself as my gaze falls to the floor. I turn back to him. “You busted me.”
“I confess that I sing along to his songs while driving in the car.” He swipes a thriller from a nearby shelf. “Windows always up though, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
We share a laugh. He gestures to the book in my hand, which displays a particularly delicious and well-oiled six-pack. “So, Michael Bolton and romance novels are your guilty pleasures then?”
“There is absolutely no reason to feel guilty about reading a romance novel.”
He holds his hand up in playful defense. “Message received.” His hands fall back to his side, his gaze lingering on me an extra second longer. “I was only kidding, by the way. My mom and sister love romance. And I think people should read whatever makes them happy.”
“I agree.” I pause, letting my gaze linger on his bright blue eyes. This friendly chit-chat feels dangerously close to flirting. Remy would be proud.
I take a step toward him. “So what’s your favorite romance novel?”
“I have to confess, I haven’t read any.” He leans forward.
“You should. They’re a lot of fun.”
I bump the book in his hand with my book. He bites his lip while chuckling. Crossing the touch barrier breaks the last bit of self-consciousness holding me back. He’s full-on smiling now.
“We could start a book club,” he says. “You introduce me to your favorite romances and I’ll show you my favorite thrillers?”
I stare up at him and shrug. “Maybe.”
Still smiling, he raises an eyebrow at me. “How about a drink first?”
“I’ll need your name before I agree to that.”
He sticks out his hand, that killer smile still on display. “I’m Garret.”
I clasp his hand in mind. Inside I’m buzzing at the soft warmth of skin-on-skin. It’s been forever.
“Shay. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Now about that drink. How about tomorrow? It’s Valentine’s Day after all.”
Just the mention of the day has me hesitant because of all those memories of Wes—both good and awful. But then I blink, determined not to let him taint this day for me forever.
I force a smile at Garret. “Tomorrow sounds perfect.”
Chapter Thirteen
Three days after Wes came back into my life and screwed everything up
I’m on the floor of my apartment on my hands and knees, finishing my latest work. It’s not a cityscape or a landscape watercolor or a sketch. It’s just splotches of whatever paint I have on hand. I glance around the room and check the other dozen splotchy works I have drying on the floor.
Locking myself in my apartment to paint nonstop for days probably isn’t the healthiest way to cope after Wes popped back into my life out of the blue, but it’s better than falling apart. Better than sobbing while lying on the floor, something I refuse to do. I spent months working my way back to my strong, resilient self—the person I was before my breakup with Wes. I know that I’m her again because instead of crying, I’m painting. I’ve wasted enough tears on Wes Paulsen. There will be no more. I’ll make sure of it.
Pounding on my door yanks me out of my paint-filled stupor. “Shay, it’s Remy. Let me in.”
I huff a sigh, stand up, and open the door.
“What is going on?” Remy frowns down at me. “Why did you go off the grid again?” He scans the floor. “What the…” He turns to face me, then grabs me by the shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “What the hell happened to make you go into Jackson Pollock hermit mode?”
“I’m not Jackson Pollock, and I’m not a hermit.” I shrug out of his hold. “I’m doing just fine.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “Seriously?”
I shake my head and plop onto the couch. The moment my body hits the plush cushioning, my muscles relax. Remy’s soft footsteps follow behind me.
I rest my hands on my knees. “Look. I’m going to tell you something, but you can’t freak out.”
Remy’s brow wrinkles. “Okay…”
“Wes is back. I saw him. At Dandy Lime the other night.”
Remy’s jaw falls opens so fast, I wince at the popping sound the sudden movement makes.
“No freaking way.” He rubs my arm. “Crap, cuz. I’m sorry, I—”
I shake my head. “Don’t be sorry. I’m fine.”
Again, he raises an eyebrow at me. “You’re fine?”
I nod. Remy gestures to the mess of paintings on my floor.
“I refuse to cry over him anymore. I’m working instead.”
Remy scoots next to me. “Shay, it’s okay to be sad.”
“I’m not sad.” My voice reaches that hard tone that always hits when I’m annoyed.
“No, I mean…okay, don’t get me wrong. I’m so happy that you’re not crying over him anymore. But try not to shove your feelings aside.”
“I’m not.” My tone comes off harder than I mean it to.
“All I’m saying is that sometimes you can think you’re okay, but then something happens to set you off. It’s happened to me before.”
I quietly soak in his words.
“Wes was a big part of your life, Shay. And he hurt you. It’s awesome to see you strong like always, but a random wave of sadness or frustration can hit. It’ll be easier to weather if you acknowledge it instead of just trying to suppress everything.”
My gaze falls to my lap. Everything Remy says is true.
“That’s good advice, Remy. Thank you.”
He slips his arm around me, cuddling me into his chest. I melt into his hold, thankful that despite all my proclamations of strength, my cousin knows I could use a hug right now.
“What, no lecturing me about faking it till I make it?” I say.
“You’re doing just fine. If one of my exes had left me the way Wes left you, then showed back up unannounced a year to the day we met—on Valentine’s Day of all days—I would have spent a week on the floor curled up in the fetal position.”
I laugh and lean against Remy’s shoulder, closing my eyes. Against the darkness, I see Wes in a crystal-clear flashback from days ago. His tousled hair, his close-cropped beard, those rich brown eyes riddled with sorrow. No matter how strong I try to be, I can’t deny how I’m still physically attracted to Wes.
“He looked good, Remy,” I groan. “So damn good.”
“Bastard.”
I open my eyes and grab my phone from the coffee table. I sort through the missed calls and messages from Remy, then focus on what’s left.
One missed call, one voicemail, and one text message.
“I bet I know who those are from,” Remy says.
I stare at the screen until it fades to black. “Part of me wants to delete these without even looking at them.”
“I can do that for you, you know,” Remy says. “I’ll delete all of them so you don’t have to deal with them.”
I hold my breath. “No. I can do this on my own.”
I type in my passcode, then listen to the voicemail first.
“Shay.”
Just the sound of Wes’s low tone and gravelly register makes my insides implode. He sighs deeply. When I blink, I can picture the wrinkle of his brow, how he’s clenching his jaw when he pauses.
“I know I have no right to come back into your life like this, but…”
Another long exhale. My entire body hums and it feels like betrayal. It’s practically a reflex how every part of me begs to be close to him at just the sound of his voice. I force myself to focus back on the moment.
“…I just want to talk
, that’s all. Just give me a chance to explain myself, to let me say sorry in person. Please, babe?”
I punch the phone into the couch cushion next to me. Remy jerks back.
I roll my eyes. “Oh please, I know you could hear it. Don’t even try to pretend otherwise.”
“True, and that’s exactly why I’m confused. What about his message made you so angry?”
Something hot settles under my skin. I can feel the heat all the way from my feet to my cheeks. “He has no right to call me babe. Not after how he left me.”
I swallow back the fire burning in my chest, the flames licking at the base of my throat.
“That’s fair,” Remy says. “Do you want to read his text?”
I shake my head, then hand my phone to him. “No. Delete it for me. Please.”
“You sure?”
“Erase it. Now.”
Remy offers a solemn nod. I take a sip of water, looking up at him. He stares down at the screen, carries out my order, and sets my phone back on the coffee table. “It’s done.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He grabs my hand. “Come bartend for me.”
“Remy, we’ve been over this. I’m too busy with work, I don’t have time.”
“You had time to go off the grid and shellac a dozen blank canvases with every kind of paint.”
I cross my arms, scowling at them. “I was working.”
“It would be good for you to spend a few hours every night away from your apartment.”
I start to object, but he cuts me off.
“You can make time to sling a few drinks. Don’t even try to tell me it’s not possible.”
Instead of arguing I say nothing, refusing to admit he’s right. Bartending for a couple of hours a few times a week would be easy to work in.
But that would open myself up to the risk of seeing Wes in person. He’s already tried to catch me there once. I have no doubt he’ll try again.
I bite back the groan of disappointment I’m aching to let loose. “What if he comes into the bar?”
“Then I’ll throw him out.”
“That simple, huh?”
“I’ll make it that simple. I promise.”
I inhale. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Chapter Fourteen
A week of bartending in the evenings and Wes is a no-show. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised. I half-expected him to crawl through the entrance of Dandy Lime on his hands and knees, begging for my forgiveness. But he apparently has better things to do.
Remy slides up next to me, wiping down the counter with a towel. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine.”
It’s only half-true. Part of me is fine that Wes hasn’t shown his face here. But the other part of me is wondering when exactly I’ll see him again. I can’t live in this holding pattern forever.
Remy frowns. I know he doesn’t believe a word I’ve said. But he’s gracious and doesn’t call me on it. He leaves me with a pat on the shoulder before turning to the next customer at the bar and taking their order.
I check the clock. Five minutes to last call. I do a run-through of the tables, swiping up any empty glasses, then shout the warning for last call.
I’m restacking napkins when out of the corner of my eye someone walks over.
“What can I get you?” I ask, still fixated on the dispenser.
“Tequila, please.”
My hands freeze when the rough, low voice hits my ears. I don’t have to look up. I know it’s Wes.
Instead of serving him, I stay standing in place.
Seconds pass. Wes clears his throat. “Could we maybe…”
“No.”
It bursts from my mouth like a soft-spoken bullet. Every muscle in my body tenses. The last time I let Wes in, it broke me. Never, ever again.
“I just want to talk,” Wes says.
When I finally look up at him, he’s just as sad as he sounds. His brow is furrowed, his shoulders are slumped, and his rich brown eyes are a new shade of sorrowful. Still so damn handsome, though. There’s a squeeze at the center of my chest where my heart used to be, where it used to beat just for him.
I swallow the pain back. “You wanna talk over tequila? Are you serious right now?”
Our conversation nabs the attention of a handful of nearby patrons. Heavy footsteps echo behind me.
“I think you should leave,” Remy says from behind me.
Wes’s pained stare darts to right above my head. He opens his mouth to speak, but Remy cuts him off. “Leave now or I’ll make you leave.”
Wes sighs, the hesitation evident in the way his eyes dart around, then back at me. “I’m really not trying to cause a scene. All I want is to talk.”
“She already told you she’s not interested,” Remy says.
Another loaded silence. The background noise of chatter and laughing has died out. Instead, there are hushed whispers. Heat crawls up my chest, my neck, my cheeks. Everyone is watching our charged exchange.
Wes tries again, but Remy shuts him down. I wonder just how long this will play out. Will Wes leave me alone for a stretch of days, then show up at the bar, pleading for a chance to talk? At that rate, I’ll never, ever get over him. Maybe a final talk is what I need to close this chapter of our past for good, and then I can move on. We both can.
I place a hand on Remy’s arm. “It’s fine.”
He backs away a few steps and clears the empties from the bar top.
I pivot back to Wes. “We close in twenty minutes. Come back then and we’ll talk.”
The tiniest glimmer hits Wes’s eyes. A second later he blinks, and his face is serious again. “I’ll be here.”
“You sure you don’t need me to stay with you?” Remy asks while cashing out the register.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be fine. I promise.” I prop the last chair on top of the last table. “You can wait in the office.”
“Fine.” He practically growls it.
There’s a soft whoosh sound when the door opens. I look up. Wes again. For a few seconds, all we do is stand and stare at each other, as if we didn’t just see and talk to each other twenty minutes ago.
I swallow and gesture for him to take a seat at the bar.
Remy shoots me one last look, but I shake my head. He stomps to his office in the back, shutting the door behind him.
I walk over to the bar and stand across from Wes. “Tequila, right?”
“Yes, please.”
“What kind?”
“Whatever kind you want to give me.”
His tone is so soft, so pleading, I nearly break. But I keep my focus on the task. I contemplate serving him the lowest quality swill we have, but that bottle is practically empty and I don’t want to open a new one just for him. Yes, it’s petty, but I can’t help it. Six months ago this man left me a sobbing heap on the floor of my apartment. Downing that nail polish remover masquerading as tequila would be a lenient punishment.
I sigh, opting for a bottle of Jose Cuervo, pour it in the glass, then slide it to him.
“What do you have to say, Wes?” There’s no need for pleasantries, not with a history like ours.
“Your hair. It’s short now. It looks really pretty.”
“Save it.” I bite my tongue to keep from yelling. Compliments are not allowed between us right now…or ever again.
“I’m so, so sorry.” Everything in his tone, in his face, reads sorrow. It’s not enough, though.
“For what?” I want to bark the question, but I strain to keep my voice at a respectable tone.
He clears his throat, glancing down at his drink for a second before answering me. “For everything.”
“Try again.”
He clears his throat. “I’m sorry for how I hurt you, for the things I said, for the way I left. I wish I could take it all back.”
I swallow back another quip, letting the silence dance between us.
“I’m sorry I didn’t try t
o contact you when I left. I just didn’t know how to make things right.” He takes a sip and pauses to breathe. “But I’m back now. For good.”
He waits like he’s expecting me to say something. I say nothing.
His face falls. “I’m…you’ll never know just how sorry I am, Shay.”
Pursing my lips is the only way I can get the lump in my throat to keep from growing into a full-fledged sob. Remy was right; emotions can hit when you least expect—at the exact moment you don’t want them to. I may not have cried over Wes these past couple of weeks, but I suspect I’m about to make up for it now. All that anger, sadness, and frustration from before comes tumbling back like an invisible tsunami leveling my insides. My eyes water, but thankfully no tears fall—yet. I spin around and pretend to dry a glass while I silently deep-breathe, hoping I can keep from crying in Wes’s presence.
“Shay,” he practically whispers. “Talk to me. Please.”
I close my eyes. I can barely handle how sincere he sounds. Still, I stand, my back to him, still saying nothing.
“How…how were things with you?” he asks.
“How do you think they were?”
“Shay, I said I was sorry.”
Fire bursts through me. I spin around, glaring at him. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? You think you can just come back, toss a few apologies in my face, and that makes it all better?”
His frown takes on a confused shine. “What? No. That’s not—”
“How the hell did you think I felt after I told you I loved you and you walked out on me?”
My voice booms against the exposed brick.
The office door squeaks open just enough for Remy to peek his head out. “Everything okay?”
“It’s fine!” I yell.
Crossing my arms, I aim my death glare back at Wes. He stares, eyes wide.
“I loved you so much, Wes. And you just left, like I never meant anything to you.”
I speak through sobs. His hand slides across the bar, but I step out of his reach.
“You think coming back with a half-assed apology makes it all good?”
