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She wasn’t sure what he was asking, but he looked so sad. She reached up and brushed some snow from his hair. “I think you’re fine the way you are, Bryce,” she said.
Then he kissed her.
Oh, sure, she knew it was insanely stupid. But then, on that quiet, lonely night, when if you looked at him a certain way, you might mistake Bryce for Lucas...when she had seen proof that Lucas was happy without her—well, shit.
Two lonely people. A snowstorm. A few beers. The combination doesn’t usually lead to the smartest decisions in the world, and sure enough, forty-two minutes later, Colleen hated herself.
And, to his credit, Bryce kind of hated himself, too.
“This was probably a mistake,” he said, pulling his clothes back on.
“Yeah. No offense. But yes.”
“You’re really nice, Coll.”
“You, too.”
“Just...” His voice trailed off.
“I know.” She wanted a shower, her skin was crawling so bad. Not because Bryce was disgusting...because it was so wrong. “Bryce, if we could just forget about this, I think that’d be best.”
“Okay. Yeah. Definitely.”
“Don’t tell Lucas,” she whispered.
“Jesus, no. Listen. It’s already forgotten, okay? I’ll see you around.”
“Okay. Thanks, Bryce.”
And that was it. Meaningless, mediocre, mistake. Bryce was no Lucas. Not even close. Worse than being a vengeful act on her part, it was pathetic. Colleen O’Rourke, who was supposedly so smart about relationships, and so good with men, had been reduced to abject loneliness and shagged a guy who reminded her of her first love.
As for Bryce, well, he was all foam and no beer. He was an “Oh, look, shiny!” type of guy, and she’d been shiny.
So Colleen spent a miserable month or two. Bryce still came into the bar, and bless his heart, he really did seem to forget about it. There were no lingering looks, no simmering chemistry (please), and no signs of resentment whatsoever.
Eventually, Colleen shook it off. It was alapse in judgment,that old familiar phrase, and not one she was going to make again. Time to get over Lucas Campbell. She’d find someone else, eventually. No harm, no foul, and no one had to know about it.
Until today.
First stop was the Petrosinsky home. Paulie’s father answered the door.
“What did you do now?” he barked. “She’s power-eating a bucket of Double Deep-Fried Buttermilk Bossy.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Petrosinsky.”
“Come in,” he said wearily. “Go talk to her.” He held open the door, and Colleen sidled past the statue of a rooster dressed like a butler and went up to Paulie’s room. The door was open, and there was her friend, bucket in hand, eating, crying and watchingTerminator 2on her enormous TV.
“Paulie?” she said.
Paulie wadded up another tissue and tossed it toward the trash, where it joined its many brothers. “Come on in,” she muttered.
Colleen tiptoed closer and sat on the edge of the massive bed. “I’m so sorry I never said anything,” she whispered.
Paulie gave her a watery glare, then glanced back at the TV. “Want some chicken?”
There was probably no better person on earth than Paulie Petrosinsky, and Colleen’s eyes filled with tears.
“Thanks.” The chicken was horrifyingly good. She chewed and swallowed, watching Arnold’s motorcycle outrun the 18-wheeler.
