I want to text himtoo late, but I refrain.
Instead, I pull up my Notes app to make a grocery list for my second venture into Willow Creek. Hopefully shopping for groceries will be less dramatic than buying coffee.
Every aisle I go through in Cedar Market, I’m bombarded with surreptitious glances and whispered conversations. I make it halfway down the produce aisle when someone approaches me, eyes narrowed. “You look familiar.”
I offer a polite smile. “I get that a lot.”
“You’re the hockey guy.”
There it is.I nod. “I used to be; yes, ma’am.”
Her lip curls. “Well. We’ll try to keep out of your way.”
I sputter, “Excuse me?”
Haughtily, she declares, “We’ve seen what happens when someone gets on your wrong side.”
Amy.“Actually—” I don’t get a chance to formulate a thought, let alone speak, before she storms away. I call out, “Nice to meet you!”
I receive absolutely no response, which leaves me unsettled.What has Amy told the townspeople about me?Setting aside the thought, I quickly race up and down the aisles, grabbing thingsI know I can survive on without cooking—milk, deli meat. Green things I can eat raw or microwave.
I’m reaching for a loaf of bread when I hear a peal of laughter that plucks at every single one of my heartstrings.She’s here.Much like it did the day I saw her, my heart squeezes tightly. My limbs lock. My soul aches at its sound as flashes of late nights and early mornings skate through my mind faster than anything I could outrun on the ice.
I turn before I can warn myself not to.
Amy’s at the end of the aisle talking with a man. Her animation sucks me back through a vortex of time when she used to talk to me in much the same manner—hands waving, happy voice. Jealousy rips through me. I grip the cart handle so hard my knuckles turn white.
My heart is laid open when he says something to her to make her laugh again. Then it hits me—Amy isn’t mine to be jealous over. Not anymore. I made certain of that.
She’s free to flirt. Go on dates. It doesn’t matter what the knowledge of that does to my insides. Ignoring the trembling of my heart and the tightness of my muscles, I study her from a distance.
Her looks have only enhanced in the years between college and now. Her long dark hair falls in a glossy sheen down her back. Her porcelain skin glows. If anything, she looks younger now than she did in those final moments in her dorm room—like she’s shed an emotional burden she no longer has to carry.
Yeah, dude. The burden was you.
Then I realize there’s a cluster of students surrounding her. Despite the laughter, she radiates authority now. She fulfilled all her dreams.
It sickens me to realize it happened without me by her side.
She says something I can’t hear and there’s a large groan from the kids. Edging closer, I’m just in time to hear one of the boys protest, “Ms. Delgadina, that’s not fair.”
She retorts, “Math is fair, Malik. Your bagging habits are not.”
The other kids rib him good-naturedly as they scatter toward the registers, still arguing. That’s when she turns. Our eyes meet over the display of artisan bread.
Immediately, her expression switches from joy to something unreadable. Deciding one of us has to break the ice, I push my cart forward until I’m right in front of her. “Amy.”
Her gaze flicks over my face. “Mr. McCallister.”
Not Bren. Not even Brennan.
“Surprised to run into you here,” because despite all the things we’ve left unsaid, none of them come out. Then again, none of them seem appropriate for a small town grocer.
Her voice is clipped. “It’s the only grocery store in town. Has been that way my whole life.”
Feckin’ hell. That’s right. Willow Creek is Amy’s childhood hometown.
Before I can recover, she continues, “I wouldn’t expect acelebrityof your caliber to remember a little detail like that about a girl you walked away from. I mean, we can't all be photographed eating at Michelin star restaurants.” Her voice is devoid of emotion.
