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She smiles that awesome smile of hers that lights up her face—all teeth and glowing skin. “Who’s the guy in the truck?” Her smile gets wider. “You know Greg was waiting for you. Like a long time.” She looks me up and down. Taking in the large T-shirt, her gaze lingering on the sliver of the boxers that are doubling as shorts but are a bit on the obvious side.
I redden at the thoughts I’m sure are coursing through her mind, then shrug. It’s not that I want to be cruel, but next to Josh, Greg waiting for me doesn’t seem to matter much. “I’ll tell him I’m sorry.” Though that’s as far as I’m willing to go.
“I already said sorry for you.” She walks past our dilapidated sofa and picks up a piece of paper from the end table. Okay, maybe end table’s a stretch. It’s half of a barrel, flipped upside down, and lacquered with some shiny stuff to keep it from rotting, or something. I don’t know. Cherise’s ex-boyfriend gave it to her when she moved up here. And though he’s gone, it’s still here, serving a purpose.
Kara hands me the paper. “Greg’s number.” She waves it when I don’t immediately snatch it from her. “Take it. I told him I wouldn’t give him yours but that he could leave his.”
“Leave his?” I frown. “They were here?”
“Yeah. We left my car at the bar.”
“They drove you?” That worried me. They weren’t exactly sober. Far from it.
“No.” She turned a shade of red. “We all shared a cab.”
“Is that all you shared? Did someone get lucky?”Other than me.
She gives my attire her attention, making her message very clear, then turns toward the window, moves the shade. “I didn’t.” She turns my way. “Did you? And you never said who that was.”
I avoid her first question. “That was Josh.” That’s innocent enough and doesn’t give away more than I want to. Because right now, I want to give nothing away. I want to go to my room to think. To reflect and remember.
She tilts her head, then scratches it in the way people do when they’re emphasizing that they’re deep in thought. “Do I know Josh?”
Only as the hot bartender. “I don’t think so.”
“What’s Josh’s last name?”
Great. Do I lie and say he’s a one-night thing and that I didn’t get it? Or do I tell her the truth and then deal with consequences? I wonder what kind of consequences there would be anyway. “Tamez.”
“Thomas? Josh Thomas. Never heard of him.” She turns away, disinterested now.
I don’t correct her. Why am I so worried about it coming out? Jeez, I’m a damned basket case. Maybe all that time of hiding Josh from my family and friends when we were in Boar Creek has remained.
A knock at the front door makes me jump for no good reason. I look at Kara, scared it might be Josh and unsure why I’m scared.
Kara’s closer. And quicker. Definitely less reluctant than I am to answer the door. She gives me a look, then yanks it open.
It’s Riley. And—ugh!—Graham. I pull the T-shirt lower, so it’s not showing too much leg.
“Happy New Year,” Riley announces, her face tan from the ski slopes, her bags streaked with dirt, but her hair perfectly in place. “Couldn’t find my keys.”
“Aren’t you back early?” Kara asks her.
“No,” I answer for Riley. “We were supposed to be back on New Year’s Day.”
True. The flight returned early on New Year’s Day. Except Riley and Graham were supposed to go to their hometown after, And I was supposed to come home,andI was supposed to see Liam. Shit. Liam. I haven’t even checked on him. God. I didn’t even find out if he’s okay. He had to work through the holidays and stayed in town. I’m a shitty sister. Damn.
I turn to Riley. “Weren’t you and Graham going home for the rest of the break?”
“Nice outfit,” Riley says, a smile on her face. The kind of smile that says she’s going to grill me to spill the tea later.
“Hi, Cassie.” Graham’s got that look on his face. That‘just sucked a lemon’look. He gets so aggravated when I don’t acknowledge his presence.
I choke back a smart-ass response and a grimace. “Hello, Graham.”
He straightens his spine. God, why do I think he looks like he’s got a carrot in his uppity ass? “Bjorn was very disappointed that you didn’t come.”
Bjorn’s not even from another country. His parents are clearly trying to impress someone with giving their son a Norwegian—or Icelandic, I forget which—name. “Do tell him I’m sorry,” is the best I can manage.
