AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I thought you’d be late,” I break the silence that’s lingered between us for a decade.
“I dodged out of work early.” He scratches above his brow, his eyes fixed on mine. “
I don’t know why that warms my heart a little.
But only a little.
It’s still frozen stiff at its core, just the way Alec left it a lifetime ago.
Realizing I’m staring googly-eyed at all his gorgeousness, I blurt, “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Unfortunately for you …” He smirks as he motions me to one of the booths in the back. It’s a Sunday night, so while the place wasn’t busy last night, it’s practically dead tonight save for the two cougars sitting at a high table and a couple of old fishermen getting drunk at the bar. “So, what’s new?”
I slide into the booth, sitting across from him as he shrugs off his coat to reveal an oatmeal-colored sweater that complements his subtle bronze complexion and clings to his toned torso.
Redirecting my gaze, I refuse to stare at those muscles.
I knew his biceps were perfection from his pictures, but nothing compares to their beauty in the flesh. I tear my attention away and pretend to be more interested in the random soccer game airing on the big television over the bar.
I hate soccer, but more than that, I’d hate for Alec to think I was ogling him for one second.
When I glance back, he’s still waiting.
I sigh. “So … I’m here. What now?”
I thought the whole point of this was for him to apologize, but how good is an apology when I have to ask for it? Not to mention, I didn’t want to do this. At all. But after some contemplation, I decided closure might be good for me. That and I was curious to see what time had done to the man who made my younger years hell.
His rebellious green eyes glint. “Thought we could just stare at each other until we’re drunk.”
Same old Alec with his dry wit and smart-ass remarks …
“Two people who hate each other,” I say, “have no business getting drinks. I came for one reason and one reason only, so …”
“Hate each other?” He sniffs, ignoring the true nature of this meeting. “We matched. That’s like … destiny.”
“Yeah. I swiped right before I knew this particular brand of destiny sent me torture messages through half of high school.”
“Come on. They weren’t that bad.” He waves it off before glancing at the bar. “One second. Let me get a pitcher. We’re going to need one tonight.”
I watch him leave, wanting to hate him, but finding myself dangerously admiring the curve of his toned ass in his slacks—and I’m not even remotely inebriated. I haven’t had a single drop of liquor and already my inhibitions are playing a dangerous game of chicken.
This isn’t good.
Alec returns a minute later and pours me a glass of beer.
“So it appears,” he says as he sits back down, “that with the exception of those messages that were sent by a dumb seventeen-year-old who was trying to impress his friends—that I’m your type.”
I almost choke on my first sip. “Oh, come on.”
He doesn’t flinch at my reaction, keeping calm and collected as ever. “People change, you know.”
I take a vested interest in my beer, scooting it closer and taking a couple generous swills.
“I can assure you, you’re not my type,” I say.
He flashes his signature deadly smirk, his beer suspended halfway between the table and his mouth. “But you swiped right. That has to count for something.”
“Honest mistake.” I lift a single shoulder and purse my lips into an apologetic frown before taking another drink.
The cocky bastard gives me a doubtful look. “Or maybe it was a happy accident.”
I chuff, quickly realizing I’ve almost downed my entire beer.
I need to find something else to do, because the current options—drinking and staring at his infuriating beauty—are a deadly combination.
“Can I ask why?” He straightens his posture.
“You’re too short for me. Sorry,” I lie.
He lifts an eyebrow. “I’m six-three.”
“I need six-five, at least,” I say without pause.
“I see.” He’s doing it again. Using that tone of voice I always hated. Partially sing-song, an octave higher than normal. I’m brilliant, and you’re an idiot. “Because you’re all of … what? Five-two?”
I glance over at the soccer game, feigning interest.
“Five-four,” I say. “And you have that … thing.”
“What thing?” He lifts a brow, worry lines spreading across his forehead.
“That … smirky thing you do. It’s annoying.” I’m lying again. The smirky thing is hot. Hotter than hot. Pretty sure if our lips touched while he’s doing that, I’d get third degree burns.
“Smirky? Is that even a word?” he asks. But I don’t answer. “So you don’t like my face—is that it?”
Anyone would like his face.
It’s a perfectly fantastic, flawless face.
“It’s not just your face. It’s the expression behind it. It says you think you’re better than everyone else. Personally, I think you got your head smashed against the boards a few too many times on the ice.” Against my better judgement, I top off my beer. The night is young and something tells me I’m going to need to stay relatively numb to get through it.
