A knock sounds at our door, and we both pause, waiting to see who it is. After a second, Becca’s face scrunches in confusion, and I know mine must look the same. No one ever knocks and waits for us to answer the door; they just walk right in. Except the UPS driver, and he doesn’t come to our house until at least two, and never on Sunday.
“Just a second,” I call, looking down to make sure the workout clothes I threw on this morning are covering everything. “If thisis someone here to get a quote for a tabloid about last night or my friendship with Jaxon,” I say to Becca, “we’re moving to Alaska.”
Mentally preparing myself to see a reporter or at minimum one of the town gossips—probably Janice—waiting at the door, I take a deep breath before turning the knob. A breath that promptly whooshes out of my body at the sight of the man standing in front of me.
I was so mad last night, I must not have looked at my ex-best friend. He’s a more defined version of everything I remember about him. Giant, maybe even an inch or two taller than when I knew him. I have to look up into his face, a rarity for me at almost six feet tall. He’s in the same thing he was wearing last night: jeans and a light blue T-shirt that, based on the way it hugs his shoulders, looks like it was made just for him. A strand of his chestnut-brown hair is in his eyes, and I have to fight the urge not to tug on it like I used to. I hate that the boy I was once friends with is now attractive. I especially hate that my body has decided to notice.
It also sucks that now I can’t pretend it’s stage makeup and good lighting that makes millions of women all around the world want to have his babies. Turns out, even hungover Jaxon will make even the most loyal of ovaries turn traitor.
“Nope,” I say, trying to shut the door, but his big hand reaches out and grabs it.
“Move your hand, asshole. You’re not welcome here.”
“Come on, Iz, just talk to me for five minutes,” he whispers.
At the sound of my name rolling off his tongue, I give up the battle I was going to lose against his very muscular arms and go on the offensive instead.
“Don’t youdarecall me Iz,” I say, pointing a finger at him. “I told you—Iz is the name that my closest family and friends call me. That isnot you.”
His dark eyes dull with an emotion I would describe as sadness if that feeling made any sense in this situation.
“Please just give me two minutes, Izzy.”
“Isabel would be preferable in this situation and all future ones, thanks,” I say. “And I thought you needed five minutes.”
“Will you give me five?”
“No. But I didn’t want to give you two, and you’ve already wasted that much of my life this morning. I was having a nice morning with Becca and then—”
“I came to apologize again,” he cuts in. Which is smart. I do tend to ramble during situations like this.
“I don’t care.”
“And I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he keeps going.
“Good. Because I don’t,” I retort, starting to slam the door again.
“I want us to be friends again.” He holds up a hand before I can protest. “And I know it will take work, but I’m here to warn you—I’m going to put in the work. I’m going to earn back your friendship.”
“Why?”
“Because I hurt you. I was in a shitty place, and I hurt you, more than I could’ve guessed. And I want to make it up to you.”
“Good luck with that,” I say, trying to shut the door again.
He lets out an exasperated breath. “I’m not giving up. I’ll do anything. I’ll buy you a car, a house, I’ll—”
“Don’t youdarebuy me a car or a house, Jaxon Reid,” I practically growl. “My friendship can’t and won’t be bought.”
He nods. “No gifts. But you’re going to be seeing a lot more of me.”
“Why?” I ask. “Why are you even here? You didn’t show up for your dad’s funeral, but now you’re suddenly back in town, trying to be my friend again?”
He looks down at his shoes, and I consider using the distraction to shut the door in his face. Actually…
I slam the door shut.
I hear a muffled “fuck” on the other side and a nice ray of sunshine breaks through my cloudy day.
