Women had called me cute, nice, and funny. My sister-in-law, Jamie, had once called me charming. But masculine and sexy? Those terms were reserved for guys like Zane. The kind of guy who could smile at a woman and somehow end up in her bed without trying.
Despite the obscene amount of flirting I’d done in my life, I was nowhere close to being that guy.
“I promised Chantel I’d look after you. Can’t break that promise. She’s scary when she’s disappointed.”
“She’ll get over it. Come on, Cal…” Zadie leaned in, her sweet scent flooding my senses. “Let’s stay awhile. We’re responsible adults. Let’s have drinks together. When you’re half as drunk as me, you can have me in a cab. Okay?”
Have me in a cab. The curve of her mouth told me she knew exactly how it sounded.
I hoped to fuck she meant it.
“Fine. A couple drinks. But after that, I’m taking you straight home.”
Before I even finished my sentence, she’d turned and was headed for the kitchen, weaving through the crowd with the confidence of someone who’d already mapped the fastest route to the alcohol.
I followed right behind her.
Zane had set himself up behind the kitchen counter the way he did behind the bar at work, bottles lined up, towel over his shoulder, completely in his element. The guy was born to pour drinks and charm strangers.
Zadie waved her empty glass his way. “Two more, please.”
He acknowledged her with a tip of his head, poured generously like he always did, and slid the drinks across the counter. Then his gaze flicked to mine, and he shot me a grin that said I’d never hear the end of this.
Zadie might’ve been right. My family was filled with audacious assholes.
“Where are you from?” I asked, once her attention was back on me—right where I wanted it.
“What makes you think I’m not from here?”
“I grew up in this town. I’d know.”
“You’d know?” She raised an eyebrow, the playfulness in her expression dialing up. “What, you’ve memorized every face in Copper Ridge?”
“The ones worth remembering.”
She blinked at that, and for a second, I thought I’d pushed too hard. Then the corner of her mouth lifted. “Smooth, Cal. Very smooth.”
“You still didn’t answer my question.”
“Which question?” She knew exactly which one. And she knew I knew.
I shifted closer. “Where you’re from.”
“Can I be perfectly honest with you?” Her smile didn’t falter, but her tone did. “I hate that question. Every time I tell someone where I’m from, it leads to questions about why I left. That leads to questions about where I ended up. And then more uncomfortable questions about what happened to me and how I keep smiling through it.”
The knots that had been loosening in my stomach pulled taut again. “Wow.”
“Yeah, it’s complicated. I’ve moved around a lot, and every time it’s the same conversation. I’m just tired of it. Tired of people feeling sorry for me all the time. I don’t feel sorry for me. At least, not most of the time. Tonight might be a little different.”
“This will probably sound like a lame line, but I understand exactly what you mean.” Fuck, did I ever. “People and their pity can feel like a weight pulling you down. It’s like they’re so busy feeling sorry for you, they forget you’re more than just some ugly event you’ve lived through.”
“Yes.” The word rushed out of her, and I almost groaned aloud at the sound of it. “That’s it, exactly.”
“When you do feel sorry for yourself, do you ever wonder if the emotion really belongs to you?”
She shook her head. “Not sure I follow.”
“Sometimes I feel like the sadness isn’t mine anymore. I’ve had to share it with everyone else for so long. Or maybe it was never mine to begin with—it just transferred from someone else.”
