Page 14 of Second Chance

“Oh my God,” I mutter, walking away from him. Men are too much; brothers are even worse.

Hollilyn’s been listening to our interchange, and she laughs. “Your family is so weird.” Yeah, well, she wants to join it. I hug her and tell her I’ve got to get to coaching, hoping the subject of my lacking sex life is dropped.

+ + +

I hold practice and then head to Dolores’s Diner.

She isn’t our competition, I scream in my head at Denton. I hate that I’m thinking of him, but I can’t seem to stop.

Do you touch yourself? He might as well have asked outright.

No, I don’t. Okay. I don’t. I just feel weird, and I also haven’t been interested in…anything…until about three months ago. I suppress any urges, but with Denton’s question, I’m a ball of fire, ready to implode. I want to be touched by somebody. It might have to be myself. Cora swears by the inner goddess.

I shake my head and will myself to think of something else, returning to Denton’s competition accusation. Growing up next to us, the Chances were like honorary Harrington siblings. In return, we loved their grandmother, Magnolia. Her farm is about twenty minutes outside of town off Scenic Drive and thinking of her reminds me I owe her a visit. I try to see her every other week. She’s always been good to me. On the other hand, I can’t say I feel the same about Caroline, Denton’s mother, but I do my best when I visit. My mama taught me to be respectful.

Denton’s father, Kip Chance, was valued as the mayor of Blue Ridge, but that didn’t mean he was esteemed by the community, especially our family who knew the truth of his behavior toward his wife and children. When he died of alcohol poisoning, no one was sad, although people attended his funeral—out of respect. Ironically, the man who wanted to keep alcohol out of our town died from too much of it. Shortly after his death, Billy opened the pub. The brewery was already functioning on the outer edge of town and a constant bone of contention for Mayor Chance.

Dolores eventually inherited the diner from her grandmother, who’d named it after her mama, Dolores. Originally, Magnolia saw the need for a coffee shop when people stopped on the scenic rail trip up the mountain. She also wanted a place to sell the McIntyre legacy: fried chicken and egg salad sandwiches. The farm kept the town fed in times of trouble, according to city lore, with their apple orchards and fields of miscellaneous vegetables. With hopes to pass her diner down to her daughter, it skipped a generation when Caroline’s sights settled on a desire for higher society. Unfortunately, she went down a rabbit hole with her marriage to Kip Chance. Kip used the long-standing history of the McIntyre family as a stepping stone to be a socialite of the city, which isn’t saying much as downtown Blue Ridge is only three blocks long.

Dolores, the granddaughter, however, follows in her grandmother’s footsteps. She’s a sharp woman, who’s worked hard the past twenty plus years. She isn’t an only child, but you’d think she is from Denton’s absence. I like her, and for a while there, I thought she’d be my sister-in-law after sneaking around with James so often. We get along, although I wouldn’t trust her with all my secrets. Remember, she knows everything as the owner of the town diner. Still, Thursday night’s special is her famous chicken salad, and I love chicken salad, as well as I love to not cook for myself. It’s a ritual for me to go to the diner on Thursdays. When Chris first passed, I needed the structure. Some habits dwindled. Some stuck. This one sticks.

Until I enter Dolores’s Diner as I always do after practice and find Denton Chance—in the flesh—sitting at the counter. Twenty-seven years later, and I know it’s him by the slouch of his shoulders and the curve of his back as he sits at the counter. That back I held as we slept as kids, but he’s not a child any longer.

Ever want to make a U-turn on life?

This is me as the bell over the door, signaling someone’s entrance seems to continue to peal in my head, and he slowly turns in my direction. One look at his eyes—inky black, like midnight over the ridges of the mountains—confirms who he is. His hair is cropped short with the addition of salt-and-pepper. His jaw holds stubble like it’s been professionally applied, and he’s tan—California tan—for September.

Sexy silver fox. He defines the phrase.

And my brain disconnects. I don’t move forward.

“California,” I mutter, and I search the wall for a map that does not hang there. That’s where he ran after high school graduation. He got out of this town faster than you can blink, and never, ever looked back. He dumped his best friend and me.

I stare around the diner, bewildered.

Georgia. A map visualizes in my head, and I mentally count as if I’m passing highway signs. My fingers tick off the number of states in between the West Coast and here. Then another thought occurs. He never mentioned anything to me. Social media. He didn’t say he was coming. He didn’t even hint at it.

My brows pinch as his deep eyes focus on mine. His mouth crooks upward at one corner, and butterflies take flight in my belly so fast I nearly vomit them out on the tile floor.

Instead, I make another move.

That U-turn I mentioned—I pivot immediately. I don’t run to him as my body twitches to do. I don’t say hello. I turn in a semicircle and walk away, just like he did.