Page 16 of Only Be Mine

“I’m not trying to leave,” I said. “I’m just… remembering.”

Amy studied me. “Sometimes remembering is the first step toward realizing something hasn’t let go of you.”

I swallowed hard.

“It wasn’t even supposed to be a date,” I said after a moment. “That night at The Scot & Barrel. I told myself I wasn’t going. I told myself it didn’t matter.”

“And yet you went.”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I did.”

Because some part of me already knew.

I let go of Amy’s hand and leaned back against the booth, my heart heavy and unsettled.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this,” I admitted.

Amy reached for me again. “You don’t have to do anything today. Just… be honest with yourself.”

I nodded, though honesty suddenly felt like the most dangerous thing in the world.

Because I knew exactly which night had started all of this.

The Scot & Barrel.

Chapter 7

Cate

November 1 - Twelve years ago

Ialmost turned around three times on the walk from my car to The Scot & Barrel.

It wasn’t far, just a few blocks off the main strip, the sign glowing warm amber against the dark. A wooden barrel and stylized thistle hung over the door. Music thumped low from inside, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the sharp clack of pool balls. It was the kind of place you went with friends, not for… whatever this was.

Not a date.

Definitely not a date.

I pulled open the heavy door and stepped into a wave of warmth and sound. The smell hit first, grease, bourbon, something fried, and then the view - exposed brick walls, mismatched framed photos, dark wood booths lining the far wall. A dartboard glowed neon green in the corner. There was one lonely pool table that looked slightly haunted by bad decisions.

I liked it immediately.

Which annoyed me.

I scanned the crowd, telling myself if he wasn’t here yet, I’d leave. That was the deal I’d made with myself. If he was late, I’d bail. That way, the universe had to decide.

And then I saw him.

John sat in a corner booth beneath a framed photo of an old rugby team, fingers drumming lightly against a glass of water. His jacket was thrown across the seat beside him. He had that same messy, just-ran-a-hand-through-it hair and a clean, open expression that hit me square in the chest.

The second our eyes met, his face lit up like I’d just walked in carrying the cure for everything.

Damn it.

He stood as I approached. Again with the standing. Again with making it harder to pretend this wasn’t anything.

“You came,” he said, like a quiet exhale.