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“Got your eye on any men in Harlow, then?” Ally raised a brow, the cheeky glint in her eye suggesting she very much wanted the answer to be yes.
Emilia shuddered and gave a dramatic shake of her head. “That’s the last thing I need.”
“Shame. We could’ve been each other’s wing lady. Besides, being the newbie and all, you would make a killing with this lot. Well”—Ally tipped her head to a point over her shoulder—“everyone except that guy.”
Emilia turned so she could see who Ally gestured to, only for her line of sight to slam right into Blaine. He sat at a far-off table, his stare burning holes through her—so intense a wave of heat struck her body—until the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses overwhelmed her senses once more.
She swung back around to Ally but failed to string any words together.
Ally shrugged. “He’s usually pretty nice, I swear.” She grabbed Emilia’s hand and tugged, pulling her off her barstool. “Come on, it’s time you two made up.”
“No!” Emilia’s voice half-stuck in her throat and not much more than a broken, choked sound came out.
If Ally heard the protest, she didn’t let on, the woman not breaking stride as she marched across the space, dragging Emilia with her.
Lucky for Ally, Emilia had been raised as a strict Roman Catholic. And even though she no longer considered herself religious, swearing was something she just didn’t do. Even the word “hell” was about as evil as “fuck,” but right now the wild panic running through her made her want to yell, Just fucking stop!
She tugged in the opposite direction, desperate to break free, but Ally overpowered her by several extra inches and pounds, weaving through the maze of tables with ease.
“You two live in the same small town.” Ally called behind her, almost steering Emilia into the back of someone’s chair. Somehow, she found it in her to just be thankful she didn’t fall flat on her face. “There’s no room for enemies in Harlow. Not without making things awkward for everyone else.”
Emilia scowled at Ally’s back. She’d had a lifetime of making room for other people’s feelings and not her own. “What about this being awkward for me?”
Or Blaine…
Ally kept pulling, as if she either didn’t, or refused, to hear. “Besides, now I’ll have an excuse to chat with Wayne.”
Emilia didn’t know who Wayne was; she’d glimpsed a couple of other guys seated at Blaine’s table, so maybe he was one of those.
Her ankle tangled with a chair leg, and she hissed at the pain. “What happened to our covert furniture moving mission?”
“Pfft.” Ally swatted at the air and resumed the journey. “I’m not giving up on the hilarity of watching Blaine try to figure out what happened to his stuff, but you know how that saying goes”—she turned and winked over her shoulder—“make love, not war.”
Emilia stopped again, those words a cold shock to her system. She tugged at Ally’s hand, forcing her to stop too.
Emilia had learned the hard way, love on its own couldn’t overcome everything. She’d learned that lesson with Blaine. And her heart had broken every day since.
His footprints were trekked across her soul, footprints that fostered a hope that good people still existed. Perhaps in some small way, he’d contributed to her finally leaving LA. Because of him, she’d never forgotten what true love felt like. Not even a soul-crushing marriage could obscure that memory.
Except her and Blaine’s love had done more than just foster hope, it had started a war.
“Listen, Ally.” She raised her voice, vying for attention. Desperate not to reopen old wounds. Desperate not to speak with Blaine again. “I don’t—”
“Oh. Hiya, Blaine.” Ally’s overly bright and confident tone snapped Emilia out of her reverie. “Weren’t you going to say hello to Emilia?”
Emilia tugged her hand from Ally’s. Traitor. She had no doubt the woman meant well, but heck, she lacked the ability to read a room. Emilia focused on the three men in front of her, her stance stiff and aching, while Ally gave a small cheeky wave to a guy with floppy nutmeg hair and brown eyes, presumably Wayne.
Blaine’s glare burned like wildfire. Her chest constricted as if that fire licked at her heart. She wanted to look away, but even when Blaine seethed, he held her captive.
“Nice gloves.” His stare dropped to her hands again, hands she rushed to tuck behind her back.
The upward flick of his gaze to hers acknowledged what they both knew. Her past. Her current situation. The gloves. All of it was a lie. And because of that lie, her insides twisted with shame. And because of him, guilt had her wanting to disappear.
But she didn’t need to disappear. He spared her the pain of his stare now and took a long swig of his beer, before slamming the bottle down with a thud. She flinched at the sound. No one spoke as he rose from his chair, all six foot of him so much taller than her meager 5’4” frame.
His severe green glower held her for one more long moment, and the hard set of his jaw made her insides sink. The fact was, she understood his dislike for her, agreed she deserved it, but no amount of understanding stopped her from hating this part of her past. That her mere presence could grate on a man who’d loved her without question. A man who’d loved her, now a man scorned.
Maybe it was just her imagination, but even as he glared at her, the strain across his cheeks dropped by the slightest degree. His focus dipped to her hand again. Well, a hand now hidden behind her back. And then his eyes narrowed once more, this time less angry and more as though he was trying to figure something out.
