He pauses, eyes glinting with mischief. "Actually, that brings me to my next point of business—you should come. Meet the rest of the guys. They've been dying to meet you."
"Me?" I arch a brow.
"Yeah." His grin widens, unrepentant. "They wanna meet the girl who's got me acting all soft and stupid lately. Or as they've been calling me—'Captain Simp.'"
I snort, trying to fight the laugh bubbling up. "Simp, huh?"
"I preferdevoted, personally." He shrugs, still grinning. "So... you're gonna come, right?"
There it is. The look. Those damn puppy-dog eyes that have always been my undoing.
I cross my arms, pretending to think, even though I already know what my answer will be. Still, I let him stew for now—no way am I giving him the satisfaction this easily. I remind myself to play it cool, not look too eager.
"I'm not sure," I say, keeping my tone light. "You know me—parties were never really my thing. I'll think about it," I add quickly.
He exhales, the faintest flicker of disappointment tugging at his mouth before he covers it up with a crooked grin. "Fair enough."
My eyes drift to the paper bag sitting beside him, "What's that?" I ask, nodding toward it.
Zach glances down, blinking as if he's only just remembered it's there. "Oh—right!"
He scratches his jaw. "That was actually my main reason for coming over."
I arch a brow. "Meaning?"
"Well..." His grin starts creeping back, slow and boyish. "It's been three years since the last time we celebrated one of my wins together. Figured tonight's the perfect time to, you know—bring back tradition."
He reaches for the paper bag sitting beside him and pulls something out with exaggerated flair. A familiar white-and-red plastic bag dangles from his fingers, theGiuseppe's Italian Icelogo bright and unmistakable.
My breath catches.
For a second, it's like time folds in on itself. I'm back in high school, sitting across from him in one of Giuseppe's sticky red booths, our knees bumping under the table.
He's got cherry ice staining his tongue bright red, I've got pistachio melting faster than I can eat it, and we're laughing about nothing—about everything—like the world outside those walls didn't even exist.
That stupid, wonderful ache blooms in my chest—the kind nostalgia always brings, warm and bittersweet all at once.
Zach grins wider, clearly pleased by my reaction.
"Got your favorite flavor, too," he says, holding up the medium size cup of pistachio flavored Italian ice. "Had to bribe the guy to keep the place open past eleven."
He holds the cup out to me, that familiar pistachio-green ice crystals calling my name. For a moment, I just stare at it. It looks so good—creamy, soft, nostalgia in a cup. God, I want to grab it, to taste it again after all these years. But I can't.
My fingers twitch, but they don't move.
"What's wrong?"
I wet my lips, forcing a smile that feels a little too tight. "I can't," I whisper.
"Why not?"
"You know why, Zach..." I sigh, staring down at the cup. "Do you have any idea how many calories I'd have to burn off if I ate even a small amount of that? It's dreadful."
I peek at him from under my lashes, and sure enough, that half-smile tugs at his lips—understanding, not mocking.
Zach pushes himself up from the couch and crouches in front of me, elbows resting loosely on his knees.
"Hey," he says softly.
