I look up. Lucas is watching me with that expression he gets when he’s diagnosing something.
“No.”
“Liar.” He runs a hand through his hair—nervous tell, always has been. “We’re all thinking about her. We’ve been thinking about her for ten years.”
“Lucas.” Nate’s voice is quiet. Warning tone.
“What? It’s true.” Lucas shrugs, but his shoulders are tense. “She’s going to be out there tonight. Watching us get bid on by other women. You think that’s not going to be?—”
“She won’t come.” Nate pushes off the wall. “She knows we don’t want to see her.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Do we?”
They both look at me.
“I mean...” I scrub a hand over my face. “I know what we agreed. I know why. But it’s been ten years, Nate. She came back. She’s trying. At some point don’t we have to at least hear her out?”
Nate doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with those eyes that give away nothing, then turns back to stare at the curtain.
Applause from the main room. Another bachelor done.
“How many before us?” Lucas asks.
“Four.” Nate checks his watch. “Sam, Jake, the college kids. Then us.”
“Then Milo and Elijah. Grand finale.”
“Lucky them.”
More applause. Tessa’s voice drifts back, announcing the next bachelor.
“Theo.” Lucas’s voice pulls me back. “You’re up.”
Already?
“Go.” Nate finally looks at me. His expression is unreadable, but something flickers in his eyes—worry, maybe, or resignation. “And don’t?—”
“Do anything stupid. I know.” I force a smile. “When have I ever?”
He doesn’t smile back. Just nods once.
I push through the curtain.
The main room is packed. Fairy lights everywhere, candles on the tables, red and pink decorations covering every surface. Valentine’s Day apparently attacked this place and won. Elijah’s stage is solid under my feet—good craftsmanship, that guy knows what he’s doing.
I scan the crowd automatically, trying to look charming or whatever bachelors are supposed to do at these things, and that’s when I see her.
Cara.
She’s sitting near the middle in a green dress that makes her eyes impossible to look away from. Dark hair down past her shoulders, catching the candlelight. She’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful—even when we were kids and I didn’t have words for what I was feeling, I knew she was something special.
Our eyes meet across the room.
My heart does something stupid. Skips or stutters or whatever hearts do when they finally see the person they’ve been waiting for. Even from here, I can catch hints of her scent—honey and citrus drifting through the crowd, finding me like it always did. Like it was made to find me.
She came.
After everything—the cold shoulders and the avoided calls and me driving away like a coward—she came anyway.
