We left a few minutes ago, meet us at the next spot. Love you!
Exiting the bathroom, I make my way toward the front of the restaurant. I glance left, and in a split-second decision, decide to steal an open seat at the bar. I justcannotanymore. I’ve reached my limit of being the sad sack on the periphery of the night.
I adjust my dress as I settle on the stool, tossing my purse on the bar top. The crowd is thinning, which is perfect because it’s way easier to people-watch when I can see out.
My eyes rove around the horseshoe-shaped bar, landing on a man coming around the bottom curve. He’s dressed in black jeans and a gray T-shirt with sleeves that stretch, straining against his biceps. He is tall, trim, his jeans doing something to his thigh muscles that should be illegal in at least forty-eight states.
My gaze finds his, and I gasp.
I know that guy.
Idespisethat guy.
Klein Madigan.
Indignation heats my fingertips, spreading up my arms and over my chest. My pulse skitters, galloping away like a horse in a tornado. My teeth sink into my bottom lip, a welcome pain spreading. I never got the chance to tell him off. To look him in his (annoyingly beautiful) green eyes and tell him how bad he made me feel. This guy is the reason I ever fell for Shane in the first place.
Which led to me introducing him to my sister.
Which led me to here, this night,this moment.
Everything wrong with my life is Klein Madigan’s fault.
Yes! That’s right!
A tiny voice inside me rejoices at having discovered the source of all my current problems. A gift, if you think about it.
Recognition flares on Klein’s face, and he stops in his tracks.
My fight or flight alarm bells ring in my head.
Run. Now.
I’m reaching for my purse, calf muscles tense as I prepare to flee, when someone pops into my field of vision.
“What can I get you to drink?” she asks. Her magenta hair is parted down the middle and slicked back into a severe bun. On her it works, especially with those woven gold hoops in her ears.
This is it. Stay or go? My gaze flickers to Klein, but he’s gone. I didn’t imagine him, did I? It’s not withoutpossibility. There are times when I’m alone, when my thoughts turn to daydreams, that I see his face. But that’s my little secret.
“A glass of rosé, please?” The part of me that says to run has been superseded by my curiosity.
“Be right back,” she announces, turning on her heel and extracting a wineglass from a shelf above her head.
I watch her pour the wine, appreciating the shapely gold-rimmed glass, the laser-cut on the body. I have a thing for pretty stemware.
My phone rings at the same time the bartender sets my wine in front of me. I nod my thanks and pull my phone from my purse, assuming it’s Sienna or my mother.
Shit. No no no no.
It’s Shane.
My heart pounds in my chest as I stare at the screen, my brain scrambling for what to do.
Ignore. He’s the last person I want to speak with.
Wait! Does ignoring him communicate something silently? Would he perceive it as something it’s not? That I’m nervous? Overwhelmed?
That’s the last thing I want him to think.
