She hesitated only a moment before sliding her hand into the crook of my elbow. “I’ve been meaning to get that fixed.” Her touch was light, tentative, but still enough to make my pulse quicken.
“I know a guy,” I said, guiding her carefully down the steps. “He’s not much to look at, but he works cheap.” The old joke slipped out before I could think better of it—the kind of offer I’d made dozens of times when we were together.
That earned me a genuine laugh—the kind that used to be my personal mission to coax out of her at least once a day. God, I’d missed that laugh, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, how her whole face lit up. For a second, it was like nothing had changed between us, and the weight of that realization nearly made me stumble on the last step.
Maybe there was a chance. Maybe it wasn’t too late.
As we reached my truck, I opened the passenger door. Pepper stepped up, and I caught the subtle shift in her movements—the slight squaring of her shoulders, the deliberate way she crossed her legs as she settled into the seat. I froze, my hand still on the door.
I knew that walk. That posture. That particular brand of confidence. Years together had taught me to read her body language like a book I’d memorized cover to cover.
My mouth went dry. She was wearing the underwear. The good stuff. The lace-and-silk artillery she’d always deployed when she wanted to drive me absolutely out of my mind. The kind that had once made me forget my own name.
“Everything okay?” she asked, one eyebrow raised in that way that told me she knew exactly what I was thinking. There was a hint of that old mischief in her eyes, the kind that used to be my undoing on a regular basis.
I cleared my throat. “Fine. Just fine.” The lie tasted obvious on my tongue. I closed her door and circled around to the driver’s side, using the moment to collect myself, to get my racing pulse under control. I gripped the steering wheel tight enough that my knuckles went white, trying to focus on anything but the woman sitting inches away from me.
This was going to be a long, wonderful, torturous night.
Eight
Pepper
I stepped into Ravello’s, the warm amber lighting washing over me like a dream. The restaurant sat perched on a hillside overlooking the Tennessee River, just far enough from home that nobody from Huckleberry Creek would accidentally spot us together. Smart move on Rhett’s part.
“Reservation for MacAvoy,” Rhett said to the hostess, his voice still carrying that slight gravel that always did things to my insides.
My ex-husband’s hand rested on the small of my back as we followed the hostess through the dining room. That simple touch burned through the fabric of my dress, reminding me of all the times those same hands had?—
Nope. Not going there.
“This is perfect.” I took in the white tablecloths, crystal glasses, and the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the twinkling lights reflecting off the water. “I’ve wanted to try this place forever.”
“I know.” The corner of Rhett’s mouth lifted in that half-smile I’d fallen for back when we were teenagers. “You kept that Cuisine of the South magazine with their feature on the chef for months.”
He remembered that? I’d mentioned it once, maybe twice, years ago.
The hostess stopped at a secluded corner table with a spectacular view. Rhett pulled out my chair, his fingers brushing my bare shoulders as I sat down. I suppressed a shiver.
“Your server will be right with you,” the hostess said, leaving us alone.
I fidgeted with my napkin, suddenly feeling like that nervous ninth-grader again, sitting across from the cutest boy in school at the Dairy Queen.
Rhett’s dark eyes fixed on me. “You look beautiful tonight, Pep.”
“Thanks.” I took a sip of water, needing something to do with my hands. “You clean up nice yourself.”
The candlelight softened the new lines around his eyes, highlighting those ridiculous cheekbones that had only gotten more defined with age. He’d filled out since high school, all hard angles and strength. I’d been around for that through the early years of his firefighting career. But there was something different now—a weariness that hadn’t been there before.
“How’s your shoulder?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Rhett rotated his shoulder in a slow circle. “Getting better every day. Most of my range of motion’s back, but doc says it’ll be a few weeks before I’m cleared for duty.”
I nodded, understanding what those words cost him. Rhett without something to do was like a caged tiger—all restless energy with nowhere to go. It had been that way since we were kids. Even during movie nights, he’d be folding laundry or doing push-ups during the slow parts.
“That’s got to be tough,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “You never were good at sitting still.”
“Tell me about it.” He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m going stir-crazy already.”
