Page 55

My mouth tightens into a thin-lipped smile. I take a step back, forcing distance between us so I can breathe.

‘So what, you followed me? I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve stalked me before.’

He shrugs, unbothered. ‘You do insist I’m a stalker. I didn’t want to disappoint.’

Despite myself, a breathy laugh slips out, and his almost-smirk widens, like it was exactly what he was waiting for.

God help me.

Seeing him like this makes one thing painfully clear: whatever this is between us is just as strong as before, and it definitely isn’t over.

We are wedged onto stools at a small bar. The air is warm, and everything around us is loud. The timber bar is sticky beneath my elbows. Glasses clink around us as people crowd in close, their voices overlapping each other. It’s the kind of place where conversations blur together, where you have to lean in to be heard, and I’m painfully aware of how little distance there is between Ash and I. We sit side by side at the counter, close enough for me to be hyperaware of the heat coming off him and the way his knee keeps finding mine like it’s accidental, even though we both know it isn’t.

He slides a drink toward me, and I take a cautious sip.

‘So,’ I say, breaking the silence. ‘What have you been up to all these years?’

Ash huffs out a quiet laugh, his eyes dropping to the glass in his hand. ‘Working. Mostly.’

‘That tells me nothing.’

He glances at me, the corner of his mouth lifting. ‘Still demanding.’

‘Still evasive,’ I shoot back.

‘I work at the theme park. You know that part.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘The scaring-people-for-fun thing you’ve got going on.’

He smirks. ‘Pays the bills, but mostly I just enjoy scaring the shit out of people.’

‘What do you do when it isn’t Fright Night season?’ I press.

‘I tattoo.’

‘You tattoo?’

He finally looks at me properly. ‘I’m a tattoo artist.’

My mouth falls open before I can stop it. ‘You are?’

‘What?’

‘That’s perfect for you. I’m so glad that you’re able to put your artistic talent to good use.’

His brow furrows slightly. ‘Yeah?’

‘You were always drawing,’ I say, warmth flooding my chest at the memories. ‘Every notebook. Every scrap of paper. You used to sketch and write all the time.’

A flicker of something crosses his face, but it’s gone before I can quite decipher what it is.

‘Yeah,’ he says quietly. ‘Turns out I didn’t grow out of it.’

I laugh, shaking my head. ‘I should’ve guessed. Of course you’d turn out to be insanely talented.’

His gaze lingers on me, unreadable. ‘You always believed in me.’

Taken aback by his intensity, I look down at my drink, suddenly very aware that despite how much time has passed, some things haven’t changed at all.