Page 3 of Pumpkin to Talk About

I start to wipe up the tequila I spilled while pouring the shots. I’ve just about finished when the door opens again. This time, only one man walks in, but he turns back to shut the door before I can get a look at his face. All I can see are broad shoulders that test the limits of his collared shirt, and very expensive jeans that hug an excellent ass. I’m sure I’ve never seen this man before. I’d remember an ass like that.

Except, when he turns back around toward the bar, I get to see his face. The universe really does have it out for me tonight, because I’m met with the high cheekbones, chocolate-brown eyes, and pearly-white smile of none other than Mike Page, my high school nemesis.

What the fuck is he doing here? The last I heard, he hightailed it out of here for college in Indiana and stayed there. Which was all the same to me at the time. Good-fucking-riddance to bad rubbish.

For a moment, I think he might not recognize me. I’ve changed a lot since the last time he saw me during our senior year of high school. My hair is darker now; I dye it raven-black every few weeks. And I have lots more piercings than I did then. A couple more in my ears, but also one in my nose. I wear dark lipstick, partly because I like it, and partly because of the season. And I’ve replaced the spaghetti strap tank tops and wide-legged jeans of the 2000s with black leggings, combat boots, and a dark gray off-the-shoulder shirt that shows off my bluebell tattoo.

But he studies me for a moment, and his grin stretches farther across his face. It creases the edges of his mouth which—cruelly—makes him even more attractive. The other guys shout something incomprehensible from their end of the room. Mike eyes them, and his smile falters ever so slightly. When he turns back to me, though, he takes a few strides over to the bar and slides into the stool right in front of me.

“Well, well, well,” I say as I continue to wipe off the already-clean bar. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“If it isn’t Bonnie Bluebell Allen, as I live and breathe,” he says. His voice may be as smooth as butter, but I sneer at the nickname. I haven’t heard that one in years. Not since he was tugging at my braids on the playground and taunting me with it.

Even when he kissed me in high school—behind the bleachers like some kind of fucking cliché—my name, Belle, rolled off his tongue in a breathless moan before his lips met mine.

It was the best kiss I ever had. Until I saw him the next day, canoodling Stacey Villarreal, one of the senior cheerleaders. I avoided him as best I could after that. Until now, I guess.

Two can play that game. I’m not the same, timid little girl he used to pick on. “The prodigal son returns,” I intone. “Welcome back, Indiana.”

“Indiana?” He raises his eyebrows in question. “As in the ruggedly handsome archaeologist?”

I cough out a harsh laugh. “No, as in the place you moved to. Everyone calls you that.”

“They do not,” he scoffs.

Brian sidles back up to the bar, even sloppier than he was just a few minutes ago. He shoves Mike in the shoulder, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think Mike was about to murder him by the way his dark eyes go almost black with rage.

“Hey, Indiana’s back!” Brian yells to his cronies at the back of the room. They return a half-hearted greeting.

Mike’s eyes soften a bit as they meet mine. I give him an I-told-you-so shrug before he breaks eye contact with me to glare at Brian’s hand, still resting on his shoulder.

“Kindly remove your hand,” Mike says through gritted teeth.

Brian does no such thing. He, in fact, leans in closer. The air vibrates between the three of us, and I can almost feel Mike about ready to lose his shit. As much as I want to see that, I also don’t need the police here tonight over a bar fight, so I chime in.

“Need another round, Brian?” I ask sweetly. That about does it. He turns his attention to me and drops his hand from Mike’s shoulder.

“Nah, hun,” he slurs. I almost gag again. “I need to close my tab. We’re getting out of here. The vibe has changed.” He eyes Mike sidelong. Mike, to his credit, is staring at his clasped hands on top of the bar. Sure enough, the rest of his crew loudly scrapes their chairs against the floor as they stand and get ready to leave.

“Oh, you’re good,” I say. “I didn’t leave your tab open.”

“Fantastic. Thanks, sweetheart.” Brian turns on his heel and follows his friends out the door.

I manage to wait until the door has shut behind him before I give a full-body shudder. “Gross,” I mutter before giving Mike my attention again. “What the fuck was that about?”

Mike looks up at me, his expression carefully neutral. “Can I get a whiskey shot and a beer, please? Whatever’s on tap.”

“Uh, sure.” I pour the shot first, and he doesn’t even wait for me to pull the beer before he throws it back, the long column of his throat working against the liquid. He slams the shot glass on the top of the bar and hums. I place his pint glass in front of him, then go to clear off the table the guys left behind. By the time I make it back to the bar, Mike looks a lot less bothered. In fact, he seems almost apologetic when he winces up at me.

“Didn’t mean to cause a scene,” he says quietly.

“You didn’t,” I assure him. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my decade as a bartender here, it’s the tells people have when they still have more they want to get off their chests. Mike doesn’t seem like he wants to make the first move, though, so I start with some small talk.

“So, how long you in town for?”

He blows out a long puff of air and takes a sip of beer. He puts the glass back on the counter carefully, then runs his finger up and down the condensation on the side. “I’m staying with my sister for a while,” he evades.

“Annie?” I ask. Annie was a few years younger than us in school, but she was a spitfire if I ever saw one. Still is, if her high hair and even higher heels when she drops her kids off at school are any indication.