“Damn! Your Jimmy Choos.”
Coming to a stop, I brace myself on my friend’s frame and swivel my upper body to check the heel for damage. Damn the goosebumps breaking out over my neck that tell me Rowan is still watching.
Do. Not. Look. At him.
I look right at him. Him with his boyish grin, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, head cocked to one side. I’d be amused too if I just watched someone nearly bite itanddrop food from their mouthandalmost die from blunt force trauma all in the span of two minutes.
This is all his fault.
My smile has a mind of its own this time, and he witnesses every second of it. I shake my head in exasperation, fix my heel, and resume down the sidewalk.
Kristen hits me with a look. I could ignore it if it weren’t for Rowan’s deep voice, commanding and strong enough to rise above the fray of the passing cars and foot traffic. “Need help with those buttons later?” he shouts.
A hearty laugh big enough to make mealmoststumble again tunnels up from deep in my chest. My friend’s face is all sorts of confused. I chance another look over my shoulder.
He calls out again. “I see the nickname still fits!”
I spin on the ball of my foot to walk backward through the crosswalk. Pedestrians weave in and out of the space between us, flickers of Rowan standing guard between the bodies as they cross back and forth. When an opening appears, I pin him with a flirty smirk and give him an official soldier’s salute.
His shoulders bounce, but his eyes never leave mine. “Later, runaway!”
Kristen tugs me forward. I have no doubt my cheeks are blushing full-on crimson when she says, “Oh, you have some explaining to do.”
“Alright, spill,”Kristen declares as she drops into the chair in my office.
My bottom lip pulls between my teeth behind my smile. Iturn the ice pack over in my hands, eyes pinging from her to my desk and back again.
“Hannah!”
At least fifteen employees hard at work in their cubicles sit beyond my open door. I grimace when the cold makes contact with the sensitive spot near my hairline. Kris just stares, waiting.
No way out of this conversation now. I lean forward and lower my voice to a whisper. “You remember the guy I ran off with at my wedding?”
She gasps and at least five heads turn. “No freaking way!”
“Kris, keep it dow?—”
“G.I. Joe is your knight in shining Ducati?”
The ice pack lands on my desk, and I hide my face behind my hands.
“Oh my god,” she squeals, and I wince, ears ringing from a sound I thought only dogs could hear.
She bounces on her feet, unceremoniously closes the door, and returns to her seat. Elbows on the desk, she rests her chin on her hands, eyes fluttering. “Tell me everything.”
“You already know.” I set the cold press back to my temple.
“Um, no, ma’am. The G-rated tale you spun me five years ago does not match up with whateverthatwas out there. He remembered your name! Gimme the goods, girl.”
The cold bag in my grip does nothing to cool the fire buzzing up my spine as though his fingers are back there again. Snapshots of gas-station hot dogs, Target dressing rooms, cheap beer, jukeboxes blaring classic country tunes, a tired old chess board, and mugs of hot chocolate under the stars flash in my mind. A million tiny, nothing moments that added up to the perfect night.
I look back to Kristen whose hopeful expression hasn’t faltered for a second. “I’m waiting.”
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Rowan - five years ago