“I haven’t tried that.”
“It’s my favorite,” I tell her. “A cinnamon citrus drink that’s seriously the best thing in the world. We moved here my seventh grade year. After school that first day, Lindsay walked me to The Fountain and insisted I order one. I think we became best friends after that.”
“Of course we did. How could you not want to be friends with someone with such great taste?” Lindsay jokes.
“Well, you did marry my brother, so I’d say your taste is impeccable.”
“Wait,” Becca says, turning to look at Lindsay. “You married Elin’s brother?”
“I did. I befriended her so I could meet her twin.” Lindsay sticks her tongue out at me. “Jiggs was the goal. Elin was a bonus.”
Becca raises a brow. “Jiggs? That’s his name?”
“It’s James,” I clarify. “I’m not sure why we call him Jiggs, but we do. Everyone does.”
Looking at the floor so they don’t see my eyes, I hide the fact that I’m lying. He’s called Jiggs because our father was a woodworker in his free time. My brother was obsessed with the jigsaw when he was a little boy and Dad started calling him Jiggs. I don’t share that because it’ll just bring back the sadness I’ve managed to keep from completely swamping me today.
“Hey, we’re having a bonfire this weekend,” Lindsay tells Becca. “You should come.”
“I don’t know. This place still feels so awkward to me.” Becca hands Lindsay her credit card. “I’ve been here a few months now, and I just feel so out of place. I’ve been considering going back to Texas.”
“That’s why you should go to the bonfire,” I point out. “Meet people. Have fun.”
Becca shrugs, not looking convinced. “Maybe.”
The bell chimes as the front door is cracked open, a blast of cool autumnal air drifting through the salon. It brings with it scents of grilled hamburgers, crunchy leaves, and a certain spicy cologne that makes my breath catch in my throat. In unison, although for different reasons, our heads snap to the doorway.
Becca gasps.
Lindsay glances at me through the corner of her eye.
My heart topples to the floor.
Tyler Whitt’s emerald gaze finds mine like there’s nowhere to look but at me. It’s heavy, pushing me into my seat from across the room.
I can’t breathe. Even with my jaw hanging open much wider than I’d like, I can’t draw in enough oxygen to make me not feel like I’m two seconds from passing out. He just stands there, not looking at me, but seeing right through me. Like he’s studying every thought going through my mind. Once upon a time, that look, the feeling of being the focus of his attention, was the most comforting feeling in the world. Now it’s downright violating.
Fuck him.
My chair rolls to a stop, the toe of my sneaker dragging across the floor. I rip my eyes from his, heat pinking my cheeks, and I’m not sure which emotion is causing it because every feeling in the world is roaring through me.
I’ve imagined this scenario a thousand times. The moment I saw him again has played over and over in my mind. The vision always looks different. Everything from us running in slow motion to each other, kissing like our lives depended on it, to me throwing every punch and kick I could manage straight into his gorgeous, frustrating face was possible.
Regardless of the version, I just hoped that maybe, just maybe, time would’ve weakened our connection. That I wouldn’t feel the maddening tug that I’ve always felt around him. That somehow I’d be able to hold on to the anger that I’ve woken up with and gone to bed with for forty-three nights now. That I would see him and instantly forget all the reasons I loved him and would remember all the reasons why I’ve convinced myself I don’t. Looking at him across the salon, nothing has diminished. Not even a little bit. It’s still there, all crackly and electrifying and enveloping and heartbreaking.
Fidgeting in my seat, I take a deep breath and try to get my bearings. The fear of uncertainty rocks through me. If we have to interact, it’ll end in a fight. That’s the only thing I’m certain of. It’s the way we operate now.
Ty’s Adam’s apple bobs as he forces a swallow and hesitates, just a split second, before walking fully into the salon. After a look that tells me everything and nothing all at once, he clears his throat and pulls his gaze away from me.
The scent of his cologne, the same scent he’s worn since I bought him the first bottle with my first real paycheck, drifts around the room.
“Hey, Linds,” he says, his tone warm, yet distant. “Jiggs around?”
When he speaks, my throat clenches shut, trying to bury all the emotions that threaten to spill over. The emotions I don’t have half the handle on I thought I did. Having him here feels like yet another punch to the gut.