Page 27 of Library or Lattes?

“Hey.” I pulled it down.

“That was deliberate,” he teased, and just like that, all the prickliness disappeared. Again.

“Do you still play baseball?” I asked as we walked through town toward my house. “I remember you—Sam and Kyle were always out here throwing a ball around.”

He sighed. “Nope. Stopped that after high school. When I moved, I guess. Didn’t fit …”

“Didn’t fit?”

“With our life … I don’t know, it just didn’t feel like me anymore.” He shrugged and the collar of his denim jacket brushed against his jaw, drawing my eyes to his mouth.

“Our life?” I asked with curiosity.

“April. My girlfriend. Fiancée, actually.”

Fiancée? Something twisted in my stomach. Something like jealousy?

“We lived out in Indiana before I came back here.” I turned just in time to see his shoulders rise with tension. He cleared his throat.

“And she didn’t like baseball?” I asked, and I wasn’t sure why. I didn’t want to talk about the woman James was in love with.

James snorted. “No. April did not like baseball.”

“But you used to play all the time?” And there he was in my head again, mud on his face, running like the wind to catch the ball one of his brothers had hit high into the summer sky.

He hadn’t answered, so I kept talking. “I can’t imagine not running after high school,” I mused. “Did you pick up another sport or something?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Red.”

Well, here’s another one … where’s your fiancée now?

“Why do you call me Red?” I stopped under one of the streetlights that had been decorated with artificial fall leaves. I don’t know what I wanted him to say. Because it reminded him of when we were kids? When he stole my first kiss?

He smiled. “Maybe I can’t remember your name,” he said.

“It’s Willa. Willa Taylor, nice to meet you.” I held out my hand and he took it, cocooning my hand in his, shaking it firmly and slowly. And then he just didn’t let go.

“James Parker. Son of Geoff and Lana, brother of Sam and Kyle,” he said solemnly.

“Hold on, is this an obituary?” I laughed.

He looked around—at my house, at the town—then back at me. “I don’t know, Red, it kind of feels like it.”

“You forgot the most important part: Known for being closed off and giving terrible first impressions.”

“Ouch.” But then he laughed. “What would yours say?”

“Willa Taylor, known for her endless enthusiasm and impeccable taste in fall décor.”

“Sounds about right.” He nodded. Still holding my hand.

Suddenly it seemed like there was just this sadness all over him. One I hadn’t noticed before. I didn’t say anything for a few seconds; I just looked into his dark eyes and tried to figure it out.

Then he looked away, uncomfortable, and I cleared my throat.

“Well, on that morbid note … I guess I’d better scoot.” I turned to walk up the driveway, expecting him to say something else, but he didn’t.

I was the one who turned when I got to the door, just to watch him kick a pile of leaves as he walked away.