Which is unfair, because I have spent months trying to forget.
He hasn’t spotted me yet, thank God. He frowns at the shelves, then bends to grab a carton of heavy cream. The movement pulls his flannel tight across his back.
My mouth goes dry.
Turn around, a sensible voice in my head whispers. Pivot. Escape. You can fake a grocery run at the gas station if you have to.
Instead, my cart betrays me. The front wheel wobbles at the wrong moment and bumps the corner of the display beside us, rattling a stack of whipped cream cans.
He straightens and looks up.
Our gazes collide.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
I watch recognition flare in his dark eyes, followed by something I’m not going to name. His fingers tighten around the cream carton.
“Dahlia.”
My name in his voice is exactly how I remember it, low and rough around the edges. My stomach flips hard enough to make me grip the cart handle.
“Hi.” Well, done, Dahlia. Great start. I clear my throat and try again. “Hey. Long time.”
He blinks once, slowly, like he’s rebooting. “Yeah. Guess it has been.”
We stand there in front of the dairy case like two strangers who absolutely are not strangers, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Someone squeezes past us, muttering an apology.
I force myself to move, nudging my cart farther into the aisle so I’m not blocking traffic. “I… didn’t know you’d be here.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to point out how stupid that sounds.
“Local grocery store. Week of Christmas.” He lifts one shoulder. “Everyone is here.”
“Right.” Heat creeps up my neck. “I meant… I didn’t know you still…” I trail off, because what am I even asking.
Exist?
Live here?
Own the bar where my sister’s friend fell headfirst into love at Halloween?
His brows draw together. “Still what?”
“Never mind.” I wave a hand, then realize I am gesturing with the list and nearly smack a passing shopper. “I’m here helping Molly. She and Bradley are hosting Christmas, you know.”
His expression softens a fraction. “She doing okay?”
“She’s tired.” The word carries more weight than I let myself put in it. “But she’ll be thrilled to know you asked about her.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “She’s a good egg.”
I wish I could say that about him.
I focus on the case behind him, grabbing a carton of half-and-half I don’t actually need. “So. Big plans for the bar this week?”
He shrugs. “Locals, tourists, ugly sweater contest. Bradley has ideas.”
There is affection and exasperation twined together in the way he says his brother’s name. That part, at least, is familiar. “We’ll see who actually shows up with this weather.”
