Morning! Signal’s too weak to FT, remember? Busy now. Call me later. Love you!
I couldn’t say I regretted the previous evening, exactly… but that was only because I couldn’t remember all of it. Trying to recall specific events was like trying to see through muddy water.
That was probably a good thing, because every once in a while, a crystal-clear memory would rise to the surface, and my entire body would flinch in mortification.
Had I actually begged Webb Sunday to teach me about hockey?
Had hedoneit?
Had he accused me of being a con artist before or after he said I was trying to steal his orchard?
At what point had I mentioned to him the thing about—dear God—carrying my sheep?
Had I actually licked his bulging biceps? I was pretty sure that had been a drunken fantasy. But what about me smiling athim like he was the best thing since blueberry pie and him—oh heavenly freak—smiling back?
And tiny newborn baby Jesus, had we really ended up blowing a bugle in the middle of the town square, where my bosses and the parents of my students could see me being drunk and disorderly?Don’t worry, townsfolk! Your impressionable youngsters are safe with me! Pay no attention to the minor incidents involving brass instruments and misplaced children.
As of this morning, I was done with drinking for another decade at least.
I’d been sorely tempted to stay in bed and ignore reality for the rest of the day, but I knew from past experience that the best way to handle a challenge was to meet it head-on, with a smile and a can-do attitude.
Besides which, I couldn’t stop worrying that I’d done something worse than the bugle blowing and the longing looks. There was a memory on the tip of my brain that kept taunting me. Had I danced the two-step around the gazebo naked? Or compared Webb’s eyes to moss agate?
Better to know the worst.
Probably.
I took a deep, fortifying breath and pulled open the glass door to the diner. My stomach only revolted a tiny bit at the smell of cooking food, but the promise of life-giving coffee made it worthwhile.
I summoned a polite smile for the woman behind the hostess stand, which wasn’t hard to do. Katey Valcourt was one of the only people in town who always had a friendly word for me.
“Morning, Katey. Could I please?—”
“Full house today. You’ll have to sit at the counter or join a table.” She snapped a plastic menu out of the holder. “I suppose you’ll want to sit with theSundays.”
“Uh…” My stomach flip-flopped. Sit with the Sundays?Me?
Did I?
Damn. Word of the bugle blowing must’ve spread quickly.
I looked over her head to the packed diner. Sure enough, Webb was sitting at a horseshoe-shaped booth at the back along with his sister Emma, their uncle Drew, and a guy named Marco, who I was pretty sure was Drew’s boyfriend.
Webb didn’t look nearly as gravely injured by the Rusty Spike shenanigans as I felt. In fact, he looked… good. Really good. His hair was neatly combed, his Henley—a gray one this morning—strained across his muscular shoulders, and his eyes had lost a little of the tightness they usually carried in the corners. He grinned at something Emma said, then balled up his napkin and threw it across the table at her, and I couldn’t help smiling dopily, remembering him looking at me like that the night before.
I wished I could remember how much of Webb’s warm, friendly demeanor from the night before had been real. Given how long and heartily he’d disliked me, I figured it had mostly been the alcohol.
A memory surfaced of Knox driving us home in my car—with all the windows rolled down despite the subzero temperatures, just in case anyone felt sick—while Emma and Hawk followed behind us, driving Webb’s truck. Webb had sung an unforgettably terrible, tuneless rendition of “Sweet Caroline”nearly the whole ride, while Gage and I did theba-ba-ba’sin the back seat, and Knox muttered, “Jesus Christ, Webb,” every time Webb attempted a high note… which was often.
I wanted that. That feeling of friendship. That feeling offitting. Badly.
“M’kay, you’re gonna need to ogle him on your own time,” Katey snapped, which was rude and vaguely horrifying and not at all what I’d been doing… was it? “Let’s go.”
She stomped around the podium, clearly expecting me to follow, so I did, trailing after her through the restaurant with all the speed of a reluctant, arthritic tortoise.
“Good morning, Luke!” a woman called from a nearby table.
I blinked and turned my head slightly to see if there was another, better-liked Luke standing behind me, but no.
