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Smiling, Nick rose to his feet and pulled out his wallet. “Definitely.” He left several ten-pound notes on the table and looked back toward the kitchen, catching Evie’s lingering gawk, which dissolved upon detection. His grin widened. Maybe there’s still something between us after all.

Ducking his head, he swerved several customers and checked his texts before the dreaded sprint to his car. As he opened Ashley’s latest message, he rounded a tall sweater display and slammed straight into a freckly wall of muscle.

Sam? Nick’s stomach dropped. Fuck!

FIFTEEN

NICK

Then, Thursday, August 6, fourteen years ago

Twelve months of longing and questions. So many questions. They swirled and taunted Nick as he meandered through the heaving Kirkwall house party, the pong of teenage boy and cannabis hanging in the haze.

Should I do another loop? See if she’s in the next room?

As he turned a corner, a crew of boisterous males began hollering “CHUG, CHUG, CHUG!” while draining can after can of beer into a large funnel, the beer bong’s plastic tubing snaking between the lips of a glassy-eyed teenager kneeling below. The kid glugged, keen to impress, until his gag reflex kicked in and beer gushed like a geyser from his mouth.

Despite jerking away from the boozy human fountain, Nick’s efforts were in vain. A sizable amber stain crept across his pale blue linen shirt. “Shiiit!” He tugged at the material. This was a huge mistake.

One hour and two beers earlier, Nick had been hopeful—hopeful he’d see Evie for the first time since the bonfire twelve agonizing months ago. Fiona and Rupert had sworn she was headed to this party, a birthday bash for a girl from her octopush team, but as the night wore on and the house filled with familiar tunes and not-so-familiar faces, his fizzy optimism began to go flat. Evie had obviously chosen to socialize elsewhere, not that Nick could blame her.

The heavy thump-thump of a techno track rattled his chest. I’m getting too old for this shit.

Storming around the kitchen doorjamb, Nick spied a disheveled brunette in a sweaty tangle of frantic hands and eager mouths. Fuuck! His stomach plunged as he stumbled backward. It’s not…?

When she glanced up from her bedraggled suitor, the woman’s bloodshot blue eyes and nose piercing calmed his fears.

“Carry on,” he mumbled as a flock of teen girls perusing food on the counter disbanded, leaving behind a lone straggler in an ivory baby doll top, black cardigan, and skinny jeans, her attention glued to an old flip phone.

The wispy chestnut curtain sweeping her forehead, the vintage Swatch, the silver necklace with her name in flowy script—unmistakeably Evie. Savoring the view, butterflies frolicked in Nick’s stomach as he figured out what to say. What do you say after twelve months with little to no contact?

Evie looked up and did a double take. “Nick?!” Her eyes dipped, drifting over the beer stain on his shirt before reuniting with his face.

“Hey, hi!” Nick flapped his hand in an awkward wave and regretted it instantly. He stuffed both hands into his pockets.

Evie cocked her head. “Never thought I’d see you here.”

“That makes two of us,” Nick blurted, desperate for a safe conversation starter. He scanned the mishmash of food piled precariously on the counter. Crisp-riddled dips, two picked-over (and cigarette-garnished) pizzas, and a platter of soggy, upended tacos. “I’m here for research—for Hell’s Kitchen!” He flashed a wry smile, gauging her reaction. “Looks like the chef here needs an intervention from Gordon bloody Ramsey…”

A tentative grin played on her lips. “Yeah. Not exactly cordon bleu, is it.”

Nick let out a laugh. Good icebreaker. Keep her talking. “I thought Sam might be here.”

With Evie’s shake of her head, they tipped into a tongue-tied silence.

Say something, so she’ll stay. Nick leaned on the old standby. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I’m good. Thanks.” Pulling on the strap of her small crossbody bag, she locked her eyes on the stain on his shirt.

“Oh, this? Beer bong dude sprayed me. I need something to…” Nick yanked open the fridge. “Apparently, sparkling water works.”

Pressing her lips together, Evie stuffed her phone into her back pocket. “Not for beer.” She browsed the counter. “But this should.” She claimed a bottle of green dish detergent and a fistful of paper towels.

“I’m glad you know what you’re doing.” Nick closed the fridge as Evie set down her supplies and filled a clean glass with water. “I love this shirt. Cost a bomb.”

Evie’s face fell. “No pressure then.” She cleared her throat and motioned with her hand. “You’ll uh, have to take it off for me to—”

“Of course.” Plucking each button open, he whipped the long-sleeved shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, giving the cuffs a final tug over both wrists. For Nick, getting undressed in front of people was no big deal. His love scenes on Dalston Grove meant he was often shirtless (and sometimes jeans-less) in front of the crew, spending hours wrapped around Bree with only his boxers and her underwear (and sometimes a strategically placed pillow) between them. No one minded, no one stared. Nick’s body wasn’t as ripped as some of his acting contemporaries, but he was still pleasantly firm and toned. None of the girls he’d dated had complained.