“How’s the big city treating you, Aubree?” someone at the pool table asked.
“Good to see your face, kid!” Juke called from behind the bar.
Craig Walton walked toward me, almost predatory, and gave me a slimy once-over. “Looking good as always, Bree. Welcome home.”
I forced a smile. Home. Where was that for me? Chicago? Seattle? Manhattan? Not those. But I had my fingers crossed for Paris.
Following Craig, I pushed my way through the Friday night crowd toward my friends’ table.
“Hey, Picasso. Long time no see.”
The deep voice stilled my feet and punched me in the gut as I turned to look at its owner. “Kennedy.”
Kennedy Hale leaned against the far side of the bar, looking even more beautiful than I remembered. He was in jeans and a long-sleeved black tee, and his shoulders seemed broader, his arms thicker. Even the scruff on his jaw was sexier than I remembered. He was an older, more sophisticated version of the boy I’d fallen hard for my sophomore year in high school. Dark, rugged, larger than life, and even sexier than in my dreams. Which was saying something. My heart pounded double-time at the sight of him, my chest aching with years of pent-up longing.
“I thought you weren’t coming this year. I thought you were—what were your words?” He looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. “You were ‘over it.’”
If I were only so lucky. I shrugged.
He stepped closer so we didn’t have to shout to hear each other. “I thought you were too good for the rest of us.”
He was angry? I guess I should have seen that coming, but it seemed…unjust. He was the one who’d rejected me. “I never said I was too good for anyone.”
“Hmm.” He took another step closer, and his scent filled my head. Damn, he smelled good. And did he get even taller? Was that possible? “You didn’t have to.”
“I work a lot.” And I was so full of shit. I didn’t work, I floundered. Job to job, relationship to relationship. Floundering was time-consuming and exhausting, and it didn’t exactly make me want to meet up with my old buds and listen to them recite their successes. Everly had the band, Kennedy had football, Oliver had the bakery. I had half a dozen jobs at random tattoo parlors and a string of ex-boyfriends who were starting to make death row inmates look appealing. “It’s hard for me to get home.”
Kennedy raised a brow. “It’s too bad your phone doesn’t work.”
I shook my head and signaled the bartender. “Could you make me a vodka tonic?”
“More vodka than tonic, right?” The bartender winked at me and grabbed a glass. I pulled a bill from my purse and handed it over as he slid my drink across the bar. “I’ll get your change.”
I waved him away. “Keep it.”
Kennedy watched me as I took a drink. “Nothing changes,” he muttered. “How’s New York?”
I put the glass to my lips, drinking until it was over halfway gone. The bartender had done as he’d promised and made it strong. Bless him. “Amazing, of course.” Amazing enough that I’d sold my loft and bought a ticket to Paris. “How’s the fine Waskeegee Tech?” I asked, referring to the small private college where he played football.
“Kind of a drag.”
I plastered on a smile. “I heard you have a new girlfriend.”
“Funny. I heard the same about you.”
This time my smile was for real.
He chuckled and snagged my drink from my hands. Our fingers brushed, and the barest contact had my stomach flip-flopping in anticipation. Obviously, my stomach was an idiot with a poor memory. My brain, on the other hand, remembered Kennedy’s too-recent-for-comfort rejection all too well. But if Kennedy was going to act like that hadn’t happened, so could I.
I couldn’t help myself. I watched him throw back the rest of my drink, his throat working as he swallowed. Swallowing should not be sexy, but tell that to my panties.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” I confessed. “I would have thought your dad would have had you running around to various Winterfest engagements.”
“Ah, yes. Waving to the commoners or whatnot.” He grimaced. “I’m free until tomorrow’s opening ceremony.”
“If you two are going to take so long, you’d better have a beer for me when you get over here!” Craig called from the corner.
Kennedy gestured toward the table. “Your fan club awaits.”
“Whatever. You’re the Hale in the building. How many months before your first run for mayor?”
Something changed in his expression, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he turned to the bartender and ordered beer for our table. We waited and took the pitcher and glasses ourselves before heading over.