The beer is dropped off by a waitress. A waitress I, unfortunately, recognize.Fuck.
“Hank Blue.”
I rub a hand over my jaw. “Hey, Cynthia.”
She peers over at Bellamy, pulls a few coasters from her apron and drops them on the table. “Been a while since you called me.”
“Yeah. It has.” Two years, in fact.
Bellamy tenses and sits up straight, squaring her shoulders.
I squeeze her hand, holding her attention, and her entire expression softens.
“Well…” Cynthia looks from me to Bell and back again. “I’ll let you get back to your date.” She saunters away, returning to the bar.
“She seems…nice.” Bellamy grits her teeth.
I grin. “You jealous?” Won’t lie. It makes me happy to see that fierce flare of fight in her eyes.
“Shut up. No.” She takes a swig of her beer, breathes out, then blurts, “Who is she?”
“Went on a date with her a while back.” I shake my head. Might as well get this out now. Move one step closer to the truth. “But she wasn’t you. Not even close.”
Bellamy’s body becomes less tense as she considers my words.
“I dated too,” she says.
It’s my turn to go rigid, but I tamp down on the urge to act like a possessive asshole. No matter how much I want to.
“I hated it.” One dark brow arched, she wraps her hand around her beer. “But for the record, this is not a date.”
“Whole bar seems to think otherwise, sugar,” I growl out, low and quiet.
She flushes, subtly surveying the folks nearby, discovering it’s true. Every eye in the bar is on us. But I only see Bellamy. It feels so good to be this close to her, like she’s mine.
Her slim fingers slip to rotate the silver band on my finger, her attention bouncing from it to my face. She studies me with an unreadable expression. “We met like this.”
“We sure did.” I shove a napkin her way. “Think you can draw me again?”
For a brief moment, hesitation creeps onto her beautiful face. Then it resets to determination, and she’s digging a pencil out of her purse. Tongue quirking out of the side of her mouth, she sketches.
While she works, she hums. Soft. Sweet. Happy.
God, I miss that sound.
Finished, she slides her sketch across the bar.
“What do you think?” She props her chin in her hands and looks at me from beneath long lashes.
Damn, she’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful, but this three-years-older version of her is incredibly sexy. Confident and put together and perfect. With her wild chestnut hair and rosy cheeks, she’s as stunning as the day she ambushed me at my table, all brazen and beaming.
It’s a quick sketch of me in profile, beer wrapped in my hand. “It’s too fucking good, sugar.” I lift it up, one soft napkin edge drooping. “You’re gonna make it. And when you do, you’re gonna be big.”
“Sounds like you know everything, Hank Blue.” She bites her lower lip to hide her smile.
I don’t know everything, but I know my girl. How she likes to have a glass of ice-cold white wine and watchForensic Files. How her tummy always hurts when she’s worried. But never about herself. Always about someone else. How she does a littlehappy shimmy dance when she eats food she loves. How she never gives up, even when she’s scared or doubts herself.
“But yeah, maybe you do know something.” She takes a long sip of beer, tracing a fingernail over the sketch on the napkin.
