I scoff. “You would’ve given in anyway. What else?” I take a sip of water, needing more from her if I’m going to parade around a stage for the highest bidder.
“I’ll go on a lunch date with Gentry.” The old fridge rattles again, a low mechanical groan that used to drive Gramps nuts.
I choke on my drink. “Not a good idea. Damn, Brooke. You shouldn’t lead the guy on.”
She shrugs, her face feigning bored curiosity. “Maybe I need to see what all the fuss is about.”
“What fuss?” Gentry didn’t tell me he’s been dating anyone. I was counting on his bachelorhood to help me settle in. Can’t enjoy Friday nights at the Rusty Spur alone. I don’t need girls hitting on me right now. Got enough of that on the circuit.
Brooke taps her pen on the wooden table. “Ever since he signed up, the auction’s social media page has increased views. The ladies love him.”
I nod. “That hits.”
Gentry McCallum and I were like kings back in the day. Girls would show up at our houses all the time asking if we could hang out. My grandpa finally put a sign on the door that said Colt doesn’t live here anymore. I didn’t find that very funny back then, but I plan on using that one with my own kids someday.
A quick knock sounds at the kitchen door before it swings open. “Brooke, guess what squirrel Bob did—oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Hi, Colt.”
My boot catches on the leg of the chair when I stand, the kind of clumsy move I haven’t made since my first year in the chute. Perfect fucking timing. I’m staring. I blink and look at Brooke instead, but the damage is done.
“Hi.” It comes out rougher than I mean it to. I clear my throat, running a hand through my hair.
Her blue eyes are steady, the kind of look that doesn’t ask for permission or apology. “You don’t remember me, do you?” She tucks a strand of her long strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear and waits me out.
“Of course I do.” It’s only half a lie. I’ve seen her around town over the years, but this close, she looks different. Softer somehow. Surer of herself. My gaze catches on her curves before I can reel it back, hitting low in my stomach and pulling me off balance.
Her pretty smile tugs a little wider. “We went to Stone Ridge High. I was a sophomore when you were a senior. We took Spanish 2 together. I sat behind you.”
Right. I remember a voice behind me asking to borrow a pen. That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Back then, I was too tangled up in the wrong girl to notice anyone else. Liz Beck wore her shirts tight and kissed like rebellion, nothing like the steady, safe life Gramps was trying to build for me. She and I broke up and got back together so many times I lost count. Last I heard, she owned a tearoom in town and was engaged to a state trooper for a while.
But that’s long in the past. I take in our guest’s knockout curves, her heart-shaped face, and my memory suddenly flickers. Strawberry hair catching the afternoon sun through the classroom window, the faint scent of vanilla when she’d lean forward to pass papers, the way her breath would hitch when we made eye contact. “Haley, right?”
“Hallie. Hallie Emory.”
“Yeah. It’s good to see you.” Funny. In high school, she blended in. Now, she stands out without even trying. “You were in drama, right? You didA Christmas Carol?” Maybe it’s the light, or maybe I just never paid close enough attention before. Her curves are about to knock me over, hands down. I’m suddenly regretting every time I didn’t look twice.
“Good memory. I was the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
My sister finally speaks up. “Hallie lives on the other side of my duplex.”
“Ah. The bestie.”
Hallie grins and shrugs. “That’s me.”
“I’ll leave you ladies to it. Nice to see you again, Hallie.”
“You too.”
As I walk toward the study, it takes Brooke less than a second to spill my business. “I’m trying to convince Colt to be in the bachelor auction...”
I drag a hand down my face, smothering the urge to growl something at my sister that I’ll regret tomorrow. Closing the door, I sit at my grandfather’s desk, my palms flattening against the worn wood. His old ledger sits open on the corner, a list of every donation he made to town causes scribbled in his looping handwriting. The ink’s faded, but the message isn’t. Gramps did his part without ever running his mouth about it. Now Brooke expects me to do the same—and damn it, I can already feel him staring over my shoulder.
I pick up my phone and send my sister a text.
I’m in.
Something inside me settles, heavy, steady, familiar, as I attempt to focus. Numbers, genetics, training schedules. That’s my world now, not bachelor auctions, and definitely not blue-eyed neighbors who look at me like I’m still the same guy from high school. I’m not. And the sooner everyone in Stone Ridge figures that out, the better.
Why, then, do I keep picturing Hallie Emory holding the paddle, wearing that same soft smile she had in Spanish class, back when I was too stupid to notice her at all?
