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The looks had never stopped, not until the last lingering gaze at that Fourth of July parade before college, but he never took my hand again. Never pressed me up against a wall. Never asked me if I felt it too—a question I only now, years later, realized I had never answered.

He didn’t know I felt it too.

And today…

All these years, and I thought⁠—

I could kick myself. That night, Camden didn’t know I’d overheard him. He must have thought Ravi was talking about the kiss, that I felt violated, that he’d forced himself on me. No wonder he was so awkward when we first reunited.

I was a shortsighted fool, and after this humiliating revelation, I had no clue how I would face him in the morning.

Twenty-One

With a venti flat white. That was how I’d face him.

How he knew I’d need a venti was obvious. Why he bought it for me in the first place was a puzzling matter full of hope and doubt that grated deep into my subconscious, forcing it to ruminate over possibilities in the background of my thoughts. As I settled into my desk, the script on the bare white cup caught my attention. Below my name, in that same unfamiliar handwriting, was a darling marker drawing of a honeybee.

An uncontainable smile spread over my face, one Helen eyed with interest.

“It’s a honeybee.” I showed her the cup. “You know, because of my name?”

She widened her eyes in a sarcastic wow, amazing look and went back to work.

Classic Helen.

Camden’s office was open but empty, and Ivy’s was dark—she was often late and frequently left early—but the marketing team was already settled in and working.

“You want to talk about plans for the expo next week?” Xavier asked, standing from his desk.

“Sure.”

I’d already dredged up a few plans of my own, but I wasn’t yet sure if I was brave enough to defy everyone and enact them. If my ideas couldn’t make it out of the gate, maybe my actions could explode that gate to rubble.

Xavier pulled a chair beside me so we could study pictures of previous expos from his phone. Each year looked similar. A table covered by a cloth bearing the Henley logo displayed the different Henley lines, with disposable cups lined up beside them. Various Henley employees smiled at the camera.

“It’s pretty straightforward,” Xavier said. “You let people drink your whiskey, then hope they buy it.”

I laughed. “What’s the point?”

“Buyers from local restaurants and bars come. We’ve gotten several contracts that way.”

“Alright.” I nodded. “So three women peddling bourbon to the masses for a few hours. I don’t think there’s a lot of strategy to that. Anything we can do to jazz it up?”

“Just use fancy words to describe each line and you’re golden. We’ll have to put a rush on the T-shirts, so we should order them today. I know a guy at a print shop in Atlanta, so I think it’ll be fine.”

“Are we using the stolen phrase?” I asked.

His uncomfortable laugh was deep, like his voice. “Yeah, probably. Listen, I’m sorry that happened. That was shitty.”

Surprised, I smiled at him. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Sure. Hey, when I pick up these shirts, you want to come?”

I hesitated, remembering the condescending conversation we’d had in the Sugar Lounge my first week. “Am I allowed to just…leave like that?”

Laughing, he leaned closer. “Always ask forgiveness, not permission.”

Yikes. That went against every rule-following bone in my body. “Uh⁠—”