But when I pictured the person standing beside me, it was never Wes.
"I think so," I'd said instead. "One day."
Mia's eyes had flickered, perceptive, but she didn't push.
Someone had pressed a sangria into my hand before I could decline. Then another appeared not long after.
I sipped them slowly, then less slowly. Fruit and wine sweet on my tongue, the alcohol warming my chest in a way that felt both grounding and dangerous. Sometimes you drink because you're celebrating. Sometimes you drink because you don't want to think.
By the fifth glass, Camilla was beside me, eyes sharp despite her own slightly flushed cheeks.
"So," she'd said, entirely too loud for a baby shower. "I've beenresearching. Did you know you can hire someone to not just slash his tires, but fill them with expanding foam first? So when he tries to replace them, the rims are completely fucked? Very reasonable rates, too."
"Camilla—"
"Or—and hear me out—we could go full scorched earth. I'm talking hiring a skywriter to spell out 'WESLEY GRANT IS A CHEATING BASTARD' over Horizon Pictures during their next board meeting."
She'd taken another drink of her sangria, eyes gleaming with manic creativity.
"Oh! Or we could send him a glitter bomb. But not just glitter—herpesglitter. The kind that's so fine it gets into everything. His car vents. His laptop keyboard. His pores. He'd be finding sparkles in places sparkles should never be for the rest of his miserable life."
"You've really thought about this."
"Nora, I have spreadsheets. Color-coded spreadsheets. Organized by cost, effectiveness, and likelihood of legal consequences. I've ranked everything from mildly petty to full felony. There's even a tab for 'plausible deniability.'"
Despite everything, I'd laughed. "You made actual spreadsheets for revenge plots?"
"What can I say, I'm organized chaos." She'd squeezed my hand, her expression shifting from manic to fierce.
"He's a piece of shit. You deserve so much better. And if you want, I will burn his entire life to the ground with such efficiency and creativity that he'll wish he'd just been nice to you."
"I don't doubt it."
"Good. Because I have thirteen more ideas and at least six of them are actually doable."
I'd slipped away after that conversation and before anyone could notice, heels in my hand, toes sinking into the cool grass as I walked toward the dock. And that’s when Nate found me.
I'm pulled back to the present by the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch him. The need is so strong it makes my fingers twitch against my thigh.
He's wearing his signature all black—dark jeans that fit perfectly, a black t-shirt that's just tight enough to show the definition of his shoulders and arms, the ink on his forearms stark against his skin.
One hand rests on the steering wheel, relaxed, and the flex of muscle in his forearm when he shifts gears makes my stomach tighten.
My attraction to him never died. I've spent seven years trying to convince myself it had, that it was just nostalgia or first-love syndrome or something I'd outgrown.
But sitting here now, slightly tipsy on sangria and heartbreak and proximity, I know the truth.
I want him.
Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe it's the fact that my fiancé has been cheating on me and it's all over the internet. Maybe it's being back in Eden where we were young and reckless and so completely consumed by each other that nothing else mattered.
Or maybe it's just that it's always been him, and I've been running from that truth for years.
"You okay?" he asks, glancing at me.
"Yeah." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Just thinking."
"About?"
