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“Is it that obvious?”
“Writing it across your forehead in Sharpie would have been less obvious,” he says, glancing back toward the street, his eyes widening just a fraction. “Oh, shit. He’s coming.”
“WHAT?” I screech, horror gripping me in a chokehold, my palms instantly growing sweaty.
The barista laughs, his lips quirking into an amused smirk. “Chill out. I’m just screwing with you. He took off.”
“Oh, thank fuck.” My whole body sags, my head dipping forward between my shoulders as I force myself to take deep calming breaths. I don’t know what I was expecting, but that certainly wasn’t it. And on the off chance that it wasn’t Nick who shoveled my driveway last night, he sure as hell knows I’m back now. On second thought, while he certainly didn’t look pleased to see me, he also didn’t look shocked.
No, Nick definitely knew I was back in town. The only question is, now that I’ve made an ass of myself, how the hell are either of us supposed to move forward from here? Do I send a text apologizing for my awkwardness, or do I say nothing and pretend the whole thing never happened?
Fucking hell. I’m twenty-eight years old. I should be able to face an ex with poise. But Nick isn’t just the average ex, he’s the one I let slip through my fingers, the one who got away, and I’ve regretted it ever since.
One thing is for sure though, he looked incredible.
At twenty-two, we were still just kids with the whole world ahead of us. There were still a few boyish charms about him as he shifted from being a broody teenager into a man, but now, there’s no mistaking it. He’s almost twenty-nine now, and damn it, it suits him. He’s exactly my type.
Even in the snow, he was wearing nothing but a black shirt that hugged his strong arms, showing off the defined muscles beneath, but I’m not surprised by that. He’s always been strong and has never opted for wearing a jacket, even during a blizzard. Though, he always kept one in the back of his truck for me because I never could remember to pack my own. Or maybe I did it on purpose, loving how he would offer me his jacket like a perfect gentleman. It always smelled just like him, but I could never work out why because I never saw him wear it.
His hair was cropped short, just as it’s always been, and the soft stubble across his jaw has my fingers itching to explore.
Shit. I can’t think like this. It’s been six years. I was a high school fling . . . Or maybe a little more than that, but I can guarantee a guy like Nick hasn’t been waiting around for me to return.
Instant jealousy fires through the pit of my stomach at the thought of him being with anyone else, and yet I have absolutely no right to feel that way. I was the one who broke his heart, I was the one who took off to New York with all these big plans to become some kind of PR guru. Hell, it’s not like I haven’t tried dating either. I’ve made plenty of mistakes when it comes to the men I’ve allowed into my life, and yet Nick was never one of them.
He was the best thing that ever happened to me, and now I’ve gone and swan-dived behind a fucking counter. Assuming he decides I’m worth talking to, he’ll never let me live it down.
Trying to shake off my humiliation, I finish cleaning up my mess before bringing myself back to my feet, only as I stand and lift my chin, I find a petite woman standing right in front of me, her gaze locked on the menu board above my head. “I’ll have a—”
“Oh, no. I’m not—”
“Large pumpkin spice latte. Go heavy on the cinnamon and hold the cream,” she continues, not bothering to take a moment to realize I’ve even said a word. “Actually. Make it extra large and add a blueberry muffin.”
“I—”
My gaze shifts to the barista, waiting for him to step in and save my ass once again, but finding him swamped as he gets back to filling orders, I let out a heavy sigh and drop my gaze to the tablet before me.
Damn it. Why do I have to have a guilty conscience?
Looks like I’ll be working the morning rush, just like I used to all those years ago. After entering her order and hoping like fuck I haven’t screwed it up, I glance up at the girl and plaster on my best customer service grin. “And how will you be paying today?”
Two hours later, I crash through the door of Nana’s home and collapse onto the old couch, suddenly remembering why I never liked working there. People are mean, but when they haven’t got their coffee or think that their coffee is being made far too slowly, they’re monsters.
I close my eyes for just a minute before remembering the groceries in the back of Pop’s truck, and as I peel myself off the couch, I remember the milk, my whole reason for heading out this morning. I can guarantee it’s spoiled having been out of the fridge for so long. But then, it’s not like it’s a hot day. It was bloody freezing inside Pop’s truck while I was busy in the coffee shop. Perhaps it’s fine.
After fetching the groceries and shoving the possibly spoiled milk into the fridge, I grab my laptop and drop down at the kitchen counter. If I’m going to fix up this house and sell it, I need to get my shit together, and hell, what better way to distract myself from the brooding, sexy man-meat who just happens to live in town?
God, he looked so good. If only I could see him up close for a second . . . but without him knowing, of course. I don’t think I could handle the embarrassment of him bringing up the whole swan dive thing, and I know he will. He simply won’t be able to resist. But then, maybe he could. People change a lot in the span of six years. I’m certainly not the same woman I was when I left, so who am I to make assumptions about the things that he can or cannot resist anymore?
The thought has a pang of sadness pulsing through my chest and I do my best to put it aside as I pull out my phone and bring up the photo of the real estate office’s storefront I took this morning. Finding the agent’s contact number, I enter it into my contacts before hitting call.
I shove the phone against my ear, but as it rings, a wave of nervousness crashes through me and I put the phone down, putting the call on speakerphone as though that could somehow help. I stand, pacing back and forth through the kitchen as the phone remains on the table.
“Blushing Real Estate,” a woman’s voice chirps a moment later. “This is Estelle.”
I scramble for the phone, scooping it into my hands and staring at it as though it could bite me. “Umm . . . hi. This is Blair Wilder. I stopped by your office earlier but you must have been busy,” I say, unsure why I felt the need to tell her that. “I uhhh . . . wanted to talk to you about selling my nana’s property down on—”
“Blair Wilder? As in Olivia Wilder’s granddaughter?”
