Page 43 of Meet Me Back Here

The worst part? I didn’t even think to grab my ball while I was in the water.

“Yes yes, har har. I’m sure drowned rat is a great look on me,” I say, letting Forrest have his fun at my expense. A tumble like that deserves it.

Even I can admit the fall was hilarious. If the tables were turned, I’d be tormenting Forrest about it, much worse than he’s been poking fun at me. As long as my phone—currently sitting in a bowl of rice back in the room—survives, there’s no real harm done.

Actually, the disaster of the eleventh hole was enough to truly break whatever competitive, jealous funk I was in this morning. After we abandoned the hole, Forrest gave me the resort sweatshirt he’d thankfully shoved in our golf cart, and we played on, completely disregarding our scorecards. Waterlogged shoes or not, the rest of our game was a blast. We kept randomly looking at each other and bursting out laughing.

After, the sauna was the best I’ve ever felt, and lunch at the clubhouse was delicious.

Still, I decided I’ve earned tequila. A lot of tequila.

“Drowned rats would be lucky to look as good as you did after going for a swim,” Forrest says, sounding serious now.

There had been a moment, after we’d laughed so hard my sides hurt, when Forrest looked at me, dripping wet, my clothes plastered to my skin, my white skort in whatever state of see-through it had become. It was an intentional, heated look. I felt it down to the tips of my toes, warming in spite of how cold the water still was as it slid down my body.

For just a second, I wanted to test us. I wanted to flirt and figure out if he was thinking what I thought he might be thinking. I wanted to know if that was the look Melina saw.

But I didn’t, and I don’t now. No good can come of it.

Instead, I roll my eyes and pretend I think he’s being ridiculous. Then, I look to the building behind us, throw out my arms, and present to Forrest the infamous El Lobo cantina.

The entire place is weathering steel and reclaimed wood, with calaveras decorating the walls, menus, and table tents advertising happy hour specials in black and vibrant green. Little candles on each table flicker even in the mid-day sun, cleverly housed in the lower halves of sawed-off Mexican beer bottles.

Music—primarily Spanish-language—flows easily in and out of the restaurant from the front patio, through open doors and the open bar, around the restaurant, and to the back patio, where I know high-top tables surround a second bar and a firepit.

Falls into creeks don’t exist at El Lobo happy hour. Nor do any other worries. And I’m ready for a reset on the day. The outdoor half of the double-sided front bar is packed, so after checking in with the hostess—a college student who didn’t work here when I was around—I lead Forrest through the restaurant and out the open garage door in the dining room to the back patio.

Two seats at the back bar open just as we walk up.

I’m sliding onto my stool when a large hand slams onto the bar top in front of me, creating a sound loud enough to make me jump in spite of the cacophony of people around us. A few heads turn our way.

Forrest, still standing, shifts toward me, angling his body between mine and the bar as best he can in the cramped space despite the fact that the bartender who owns the hand is twice Forrest’s size.

“You’re not welcome here,” a deep voice growls at me while my eyes work their way from that dark brown hand up the arm to the body it belongs to.

I swear the whole patio freezes at the deathly calm this man exudes.

Tyler has always been one for dramatics. The second it feels like the tension is about to snap, he crumples forward onto the cool metal between us, catching his face in his hands, his elbows propping him up.

“You don’t call. You don’t write. And then you just waltz in here, looking like a breath of fresh air, with a hot professor man ready to defend your honor?” Tyler whines as life around us resumes, my laughter joining the typical bar noise.

Forrest looks back at me, probably searching for confirmation that Tyler is a friend, not foe.

I give him a little nod. Tyler is a very good friend.

Forrest takes his seat. In his button-up shirt (with the sleeves rolled up) and grey slacks, I guess I do see the whole professor thing. The glasses really bring it home. I have absolutely no opinion on the hot qualifier.

“Ty.” I soften, wrapping my hands around Tyler’s, effectively cupping his face with them. “You know our love was too powerful for me,. I had to go. We would have destroyed each other. The world wasn’t ready.”

Forrest’s brow furrows as he looks at me out of the corner of his eye. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was jealous.

I think Tyler was born a shameless flirt, always there to lighten things during a tough shift and keep us laughing. He also always partied the hardest when we weren’t on the clock, lining up body shots and planning bar crawls for all of us to let off steam. Then, he’d switch into bodyguard mode, staying late to make sure anybody who wanted an escort to their car had one.

“Our story could have been one for the ages,” Tyler insists as he straightens up. Then he turns his attention to Forrest, leaning back over the bar and holding a hand out to him.

“Professor, I’m Tyler,” he says.

“Just Forrest will do. It’s nice to meet you, Tyler.” Forrest takes Tyler’s offered hand and shakes it. “I guess it’s safe to assume you know Cam from her days here?”