“You’re the worst damn liar.” Rosie laughs mechanically, knowing me well enough to see right through me. I’ve worked here for a little over two years now, and we’ve become closefriends—more like family. We’ve been through a lot, me, this bar, and Rosie. Good times.Bad.
My heart aches thinking about the bad times. I still have night terrors.
Giving me her back, Rosie organizes the new bottles of top-shelf booze she just brought in. The glass clinks as she shifts and rotates them, striving for perfection.
My thoughts stray back to him, and I spin my ring again.
Gareth.
Rosie’s not wrong—I am a bad liar. And I can’t deny that I’m thinking about himagain.
On the TV, cheers erupt, and the announcer booms, “And that’s third out for the Rebels.”
A jolt of excitement pulsates through me knowing who was on third.
Glancing over my shoulder, I catch the screen just as the camera pans to Gareth’s stupidly handsome face, beaming as he throws the ball back to the pitcher.
I sigh, but I make sure it’s silent.
“You break it, you buy it,” Rosie singsongs in my ear, causing me to startle. I look down at the lowball in my hand that I'm aggressively wiping dry. “You hate baseball or something?”
“Or something,” I grumble, watching her swipe the remote off the counter and change the channel.
Leaning her elbows against the shiny lacquered cherrywood, she arches a brow. “Alright. Tell me everything.”
The last thing I want to do is open that can of worms, but Rosie’s a hard person not to bare your soul to when she asks. But still, everything that’s happened with Gareth—and lack thereof—feels like it should stay between us.
That’s how things have always been between us. Asecret.
Behind closed doors.
Maybe talkingwillhelp this time.
The tail end of another memory flashes through my mind, and with the slightest shake of my head, I shoo it away.
I start to dry another glass. “I mean, how in-depth do you want me to go? Every last detail or just the woman scorned bit?”
“Let’s start with the end of the story. The beginning’s not as important—I just want to know what made you so ticked at the hot baseball player.”
A relenting sigh pushes past my lips. “He’s my brother’s best friend, and I practically begged him to take my virginity about eight years ago, but he refused.”
Rosie’s brows raise, practically touching her hairline. “Eight years ago is a long time, Punk Princess. You sure that’s the end of the story?”
“Close enough.”
“Alright, I’ll respect that. So, you offered your virginity on a silver platter and he said no?”
“He didn’t know I was a virgin.”
What more can I say than that without going into the nitty-gritty? Which I absolutely do not want to do. “I don’t know that it would have made a difference regardless, but I never told him. It’s fine.” Shrugging, I turn away, busying myself again.
“You’re holding onto a lot of resentment. Maybe you should try talking to him.”
Hilarious suggestion considering Rosie spent months making her husband work for her forgiveness after screwing things up with her. “Pot, meet kettle.”
Tossing her head back, she laughs boisterously. “Touché. I’ll quit the lecture. It’s not really my style, anyway. If it’s been eight years and he still has you this wound up, there has to be a reason, right? Go get your man.”
Oh, there’s a reason alright.
