This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Kelly Siskind

Teaser excerpt copyright © 2022 by Kelly Siskind

Cover design by Croco Designs

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at kellysiskind@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

The author is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the author.

ISBN 978-1-988937-17-5 (ebook edition)

Vellum flower icon Created with Vellum

5 TRICKS TO SEDUCING YOUR ENEMY

KELLY SISKIND

ARE YOU READY TO FALL IN LOVE?

5 Tricks to Seducing Your Enemy is a prequel novella for the Bower Boys series, with all books told only from the male point of view, because I LOVE channeling my inner dude :)

So sit back and relax. It's time to escape to the town of Windfall, where the drinks are cold, the men are hot, and gossip is the town’s crypto currency!

1

While there are tons of ambiguities in life, moments or people that are hard to interpret or pin down, there’s one certainty in my life that’s as clear as Bear Lake on a sunny day: Naomi James despises me.

I’m directly behind her in the coffee shop line. This isn’t abnormal. Our hometown of Windfall is the size of a postage stamp. We’re both addicted to caffeine, and the grinds at Sugar and Sips are the best. We both head to work at the same time—me pulling into Ridgeview Veterinary Clinic at half-past eight after adhering to all traffic laws, while Naomi drives like an IndyCar racer high on gasoline to the local high school, where she teaches science. Most mornings, we find ourselves in line together, separated by a patron or two.

Unfortunately, more often than not, I’m nuts-to-butt behind Ms. High and Mighty herself, where she lives to torment me.

Case in point, our friend Ricky Sellers is at the cash register. By “our” friend, I mean he’s friends with Naomi and he’s friends with me, but by no means are the three of us friends together. Anyway, when our independent-of-each-other friend moves from the cash register to wait for his order, the person behind him shuffles into Ricky’s spot, and the next person steps forward. But Naomi, who should now move ahead, doesn’t budge.

I know. Trust me. I get how horrified you are.

It’s an unwritten rule. All line-waiters are supposed to inch forward to take the vacant space in front of them, not leave the yawning gap there, knowing the person behind them is vibrating with irritation because the line can move, but it doesn’t. Only a monster would purposely induce that level of frustration. Not even the rich coffee smells and cute pastel decor of my favorite coffee shop can ease the tension seizing my shoulders.

Naomi’s slim shoulders give a malicious shake, the Baroness of Awful holding in an evil cackle. She knows how much this move annoys me.

“Good morning, you two.” Ricky moves beside Naomi and me, his coffee in hand, standing half in her bubble of space and half in mine. Like the three of us might actually have a conversation together, when he knows I’d rather be neutered at the vet clinic.

“It is lovely,” Naomi says, angling her body so I’m out of the conversation. “But there’s an odd sound I can’t shake. A slight hiss that’s irritating. Do you hear it?”

This goddamn woman.

She’s well aware I broke my nose in grade eleven when Leo Whitaker tossed a basketball at me, which I caught with my face. I may have been named after my grandfather, Avett Lewis, but I didn’t inherit his natural athleticism. I’m a lover of animals and science and reading graphic novels. I prefer hiking in solitude over playing team sports. I’d rather dissect a frog than watch an NBA game, and ever since I took that shot to the face, when I’m breathing hard—aka: when I’m in line behind Cruella De Naomi and irritation burns a path up my lungs—a slight wheezing sound escapes my deviated septum.

“It’s like the world’s most irritating fly is in my ear,” she adds.

What a peach. “I didn’t notice an odd sound,” I say to Ricky as I sift through my array of Naomi insults, choosing the most beneficial to launch. Cataloguing Naomi Taunts is a favorite pastime of mine. “Or maybe I’m distracted trying to remember when my car will be fixed after some maniac slammed into it.”

Did I mention Naomi the wannabe IndyCar racer rear-ended me last week?

Good times.

From the corner of my eye, I catch how her full lips purse. Her nose does its usual twitchy thing when she’s annoyed. I mentally fist pump.

Focused on Ricky, she says, “Avett got rear-ended because he drives like a five-hundred-year-old man with cataracts and nonexistent reflexes. Actually…” She looks at me abruptly, her gold hoop earrings swaying with the sharp move. For a split second her gaze seems to dart to my lips, but I know better. She’s eyeing my jugular, looking for the perfect place to slice. “He’s a twenty-five-year-old man-child with nonexistent reflexes and no depth perception, hence the athletic prowess that resulted in the annoying sound coming from his nose. So I’d say the accident was his fault.”

“Ready to order, Naomi?” The barista gives her a smile.

I’m so incensed I didn’t even notice the larger line gap in front of her.

High off her insult, Naomi swivels away from me and sashays up to the counter. My traitorous eyes drop to her full hips, hugged by her slim skirt. My pulse picks up.…until she pretends she doesn’t know what she wants to order. She only does this when I’m behind her. Takes her sweet-ass time just to provoke me, then makes a show of paying with pennies and nickels and dimes, slashing another five years off of my life, all because I did something stupid to her in high school.

Ricky sips his coffee and hums the theme to Jaws. “You two make my coffee mornings way more fun.”

“There’s no us two.”

“There’s definitely a you two.”

“In an alternate universe where all world leaders sing “Give Peace a Chance” in a friendship circle, maybe.”

He smirks. “Everyone in town loves guessing which one of you will need stitches first.”

Because Windfall thrives on gossip and is inhabited by townsfolk who’d rather sift through everyone else’s dirty laundry than wash their own. “Considering last week’s fender-bender, the answer to that question is obviously me.” I massage my neck, which is still stiff from Naomi attempting to turn my car into a Slinky.

My mind may have been occupied that day, spinning forward to the ACL surgery I had to perform on Jane Redford’s husky cross, but the driver who does the rear-ending is always at fault. Unless you’re Naomi James. She hurried out of her car afterward, a slight quiver to her chin as she assessed the damage on my Subaru and mumbled something I couldn’t hear. Not unusual. Naomi often mumbles unintelligible insults when I’m around, but she looked so distraught, so un-Naomi, I nearly did the unthinkable and told her it’s okay, it’s just an accident, no big deal.

Then her watery gaze snapped to me. Her momentary vulnerability hardened into black ice. “Of course it was you. God forbid something works out in my life when you’re around.”

The disdain blasting from her hit me harder than her Mazda careening into my Subaru. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“The fact that you don’t know says it all.”

“I don’t speak code, Naomi. And I don’t appreciate being blamed for an accident that wasn’t my fault.” I gestured angrily at my crunched bumper.

Nearby pedestrians stopped to eavesdrop on our argument as cars slowed and veered around us, windows rolled down for maximum viewing.

“If you advanced when the light turned green,” Naomi said, talking loud enough to encourage our audience, “I wouldn’t have hit you.”

“If you waited like a patient driver who doesn’t have a lead foot, you wouldn’t have hit me. And giving me dirty looks won’t help your cause.”

She morphed then, the richness in her eyes calcifying into obsidian spearheads, the edges of her cheekbones sharpening. Naomi the Villainous Vixen. “Should I put a paper bag over my head? Will that make it easier for you to talk to me?”

The level of hate in her tone had me leaning back, lest her fangs finally drop and find my jugular, but I didn’t back down.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that there’s no winning with Naomi James. She can rant at me about my driving or paper bags or whatever other nonsense she concocts. Since my stunt in high school—which I eventually apologized for—she’s never once smiled at me, been kind, apologized herself for a mistake, like the time she rammed her shopping cart into mine at Duke’s Market and sent my jar of strawberry jam crashing to the floor. Naomi’s a reckless driver. She’s not much better at pushing a grocery cart, and she holds grudges tighter than a toddler clings to her favorite blankie.

Hence her continued antagonism when I get stuck behind her in line.

When she finally pays for her coffee with her piggy-bank change, I move to the counter and place my order. The space she previously occupied still smells like her, hints of coconut and sun-drenched sand curling around me. I grit my teeth.

For some incomprehensible reason, my body didn’t get the we-hate-Naomi memo. Invariably, I take one whiff of her beach-conjuring perfume, or my eyes linger too long on her fitted skirts and dainty high heals, and my cock thickens. Slightly. Enough to infuriate me. From the corner of my eye, I catch her twisting her thick mass of hair into a bun, exposing the long lines of her neck. I shouldn’t imagine my mouth grazing her olive skin, my fingers dragging across her revealed nape. Not unless it’s to strangle her.

Jaw tense, I clench and release my hands.

Ricky stands with me as I stew, like he sometimes does in the morning. I give myself an extra ten minutes in my daily commute, hoping we have time to catch up before we both run to work. “You should give her a break,” he says after I order. “Naomi’s a blast to hang out with.”

“You must be thinking of a different Naomi.”

Aaron Rothman walks in and nods to us both, but his eyes linger on Ricky. Ricky’s eyes do a similar sweep of Aaron—a game of charades I’ve observed most mornings the past month. Today’s mimed movie looks like Catch Me if You Can.

If Naomi and I played charades, the movie title we’d act out is Today You Die.

“Have you asked him out yet?” I ask Ricky.

An uncharacteristic blush stains his freckled cheeks. “Not sure he’s my type.”

I don’t know who Ricky’s type is. He’s generally easygoing, works hard as a carpenter for Dwayne Ackerman’s construction company. During high school he fronted Windfall High’s famed garage band, the Tweeds. While he dated a couple of girls back then, he came out after graduation and hasn’t introduced me to any men in his life since.

“You don’t know if he’s your type until you test the waters,” I say. “Aaron’s quiet, but he’s always seemed nice.”

“And you don’t know Naomi because you’ve never given her a chance.”

“A chance?” Has he not witnessed her daily dose of I-hate-Avett-Lewis jabs? “The fact that she’s still mad about our high school president campaigns from seven years ago speaks volumes about Naomi James. A woman who can’t get over my stupid stunt back then isn’t someone I want to know.”

He snickers. “You were on such a mission that day. Still can’t believe you had the nerve to pull that off.”

“Not my finest moment, but that was a lifetime ago. She needs to move on already and leave me alone.” Maybe then I’ll shake my unrelenting attraction to her. My body’s draw to Naomi is likely hate induced. The kind of dark passion fanned by anger and long-suffering indignation.

“Maybe you need to get over the campaign incident,” Ricky says. “That’s not even why she torments you.” He checks his phone and frowns. “Gotta head out, but I’m looking forward to watching you two murder each other with your eyes tomorrow.”

He trades another charged glance with Aaron as he leaves.

My name’s called to gather my coffee.

I don’t move.

For the life of me I can’t compute Ricky’s words. While I only returned to Windfall a year ago, after finishing college, I visited often enough before then. Ran into Naomi at Duke’s Market and the library and Windfall’s many festivals. For those seven years of run-ins, she’s been nothing but a shrew. I assumed my ambush of her campaign ignited her hatred for me. Before that we were friends. Before that idiotic move, I even tried to flex my pathetic flirting muscles with her. Then I sabotaged her campaign, took the popular vote to victory, and she turned into the Wicked Witch of Windfall.

If losing the election isn’t why she hates me, then what the hell am I missing?

2

Naomi is once again infecting my life. She hasn’t been lurking around, goading me with her infantile antics since this morning. I’ve gone about my work as usual—vaccinating Yoda, removing porcupine quills from Peanut Butter’s face, neutering Captain Hook and Barkley—but every free moment has been spent dissecting our storied history. I’ve even gone so far as to analyze our earlier interactions, before I ruined her campaign.

As much as it pains me to admit my weakness, I had a thing for Naomi. Past tense. My body may still react to her physically, but as an impressionable teen I crushed on her. Hard.

Or maybe I was just lonely.

My best friend Edgar—or as everyone called him back then, E—had recently vanished. I don’t say that with any hint of irony or sarcasm. The dude literally dropped off the planet in the span of one night. His whole family of five boys was suddenly gone. A For Sale sign was slapped on their house. No word, no note, no text or call or any fucking word. He was my closest friend, best bud for eight years, and I didn’t take his disappearance well.

I wasn’t hovering on a knife’s edge of depression, but I was pretty confused. Lonely and pissed off. Then Naomi James, who had never given me the time of day, walked up to me in the cafeteria and put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry about, E,” she said softly. “It’s all so messed up. If you need to talk, I’m here.”

I didn’t reply. I was seventeen and shouldn’t have had any issues talking with girls, but my throat felt like it was solidifying—a constant trickle of cement hardening until I couldn’t breathe.

Most people in school avoided me after E left. Kids either didn’t know what to say or they were unnerved by the way I’d shut down and skulked around. Not that I minded. Speaking to people about E’s disappearance would mean thinking about me and my best friend pulling stupid pranks together, slingshotting rocks in Windfall’s abandoned rock quarry, getting drunk for our first time until he puked on his mom’s azaleas. Opening my mouth would have meant cracking that thickening cement, letting the pain leak through. I knew I’d fucking cry.

So I looked at Naomi, the first person to approach me and offer kindness in weeks, and I couldn’t swallow or speak. All I managed was a small nod.

Her eyes turned glassy, and she bit her lip.

Back then, Naomi didn’t smell like a tropical beach. She didn’t wear flirty dresses that cinched her waist and flared around her calves. She wore baggy T-shirts and jeans, her thick brown hair obscuring her face as she hunched under the weight of her backpack. She was a periphery person in a bustling school full of people, then she squeezed my shoulder, gave me those soft eyes, and I was a goner.

Slowly, each night, despondence over losing my best friend was replaced with Naomi Fascination. She enjoyed science, like me. I even spied her reading one of my favorite graphic novels. I’d wait near her locker, then pretend I just got to school just so I could say hi to her as I passed her in the hall. I traded seats with Ricky for the sheer pleasure of sitting beside her in calculus.

One morning, as the teacher droned on about equations and formulas, I leaned toward her and nudged her elbow. “Can I borrow a pencil?”

Her dark eyes darted to my lips, then down to her desk. “Sure.”

Sneaking another look at me, she dipped her hand into her pencil case. When I reached to grab her sharpened 2B, our fingers grazed.

Her lips parted. My dick thickened behind my fly.

That was all it took. One barely-there graze and my body was on fire for her.

I spent the next week reliving her light touch while stroking myself blind, but I didn’t ask her out. Naomi stole occasional glances at me at lunch and in class, while I’d linger at my locker down the hall, hoping we’d interact. I was pretty sure she might be interested too, but what if she wasn’t? My closest friend had vanished. Naomi was the first good thing to happen to me in ages. I was scared of upsetting our balance, losing this feeling of wonder that kept me from crumbling and thinking about E.

So I didn’t make a move. Just stewed in my wanting of her.

Then we both ran for school president.

Being too chickenshit to ask Naomi out, I threw myself into my campaign. Gradually became better friends with Ricky, who was also upset about E’s disappearance. I’d watch Ricky’s band rehearse the way E used to, occasionally smoking weed with them, even though I hated it. I’d heckle them at shows, slotting into my former friend’s life, while trying my best to forget he existed. When Ricky’s band, the Tweeds, became my unofficial campaign managers and told me Naomi was more popular and would for sure win, something dark took root inside of me.

E was gone. Naomi felt out of reach, and the thought of losing something else had me on the edge of breaking. So I made an idiotic plan to sabotage her campaign.

Why, you may wonder, would I hurt the one girl who showed me unselfish kindness? The girl who infiltrated my waking dreams? It's simple. Teenage boys are idiots. Even worse, teenage boys who are sad and mad at the world are complete morons. At the heart of it, I think I was just plain scared. I wanted to hurt her before she had the chance to hurt me, like my former best friend. Complete moron doesn’t quite cover my idiocy.

Thus began my Destroy Naomi’s Campaign mission.

On the afternoon of my mission, I hid in a supply closet before they locked school for the night. When the coast was clear and the lights were out, I whipped around the halls, tearing her posters off the wall and ripping them up, all the while muttering things like some fucking friend you are, fucking asshole, wish I never fucking met you.

My anger was directed at E, not Naomi, but I was too incensed to notice or care.

The morning after my crazed poster hunt, once the doors were unlocked and students flooded in, that’s when the guilt came. A wave of sickness sloshed in my stomach. I’d done my best to hide the evidence, dumpster diving in the large bins outside, shoving Naomi’s mutilated posters under bags of trash. Still, my stomach churned. My hands shook. Adrenaline leached out, leaving nothing but nausea as the school’s fluorescent lights beamed down at me, like I was in an interrogation room, deprived of sleep and comfort, on the edge of confession.

Ricky and the Tweeds surrounded me. They talked about stupid shit. Something about a new Cameron Diaz movie. Their drummer, Shawn, droned on about how hot she was. I hardly joined the conversation. My heart was beating in my throat, clammy sweat slicking the back of my neck.

“Dude,” Ricky said, pointing at my shirt, cackling. “The evidence is still on you.”

I glanced down and panic frothed hotter in my gut. A corner of Naomi’s poster was stuck to my shirt with ketchup or blood or something nasty from the trash bin, and I froze, terror stricken.

“Anyway,” Shawn said, oblivious to my freaking out, “Cameron Diaz is, like, the pinnacle of hot. Totally bang worthy.” He nudged my shoulder. “You need to watch the flick.”

He was still speaking, but his voice became white noise—vague whirling sounds muted by my self-loathing. I didn’t give a shit about Cameron Diaz or any other random celebrity crush. I was filled with guilt and frustration and barked back some rudeness about Cameron Diaz, angry at myself for ruining Naomi’s campaign, at E for deserting me, at my life for sucking so bad.

I flung the lingering poster piece off my shirt and got two furious steps away, when I almost rammed into Naomi.

The devastation on her face in that moment has stayed with me over the years. The wide shock of her dark eyes, the quivering of her chin, the sharp flare of her nostrils—equal parts sadness and fury as her gaze darted from my face to the crumpled poster piece on the floor.

There was no hiding what I’d done to her campaign. I was caught red-shirted with that ketchup-blood smudge calling out my evil deed. Even worse, she didn’t yell at me. Not one vicious word. A lone tear slipped from her eye, tearing me apart with its slow slide. She lost the campaign and proceeded to ignore me with the type of quiet venom that turned my self-loathing into despair.

Now I’m bewildered.

I was sure that stunt was responsible for Naomi’s disdain, but Ricky’s “That’s not even why she torments you” has looped through my brain all day, festering. Her motivations shouldn’t matter. I should ignore Ricky’s revelation. Naomi and I are oil and water. Every Monday morning feels like the start of a hostage situation: Naomi rigging me with dynamite while I frantically decide which wire to cut so I don't explode. But my need to understand why she truly hates me bores under my skin like the tick I’m removing from my latest patient, Willow.

“That should do it.” I crouch and give Willow’s chest a rub, then smile at Mrs. Miller.

Instead of smiling back, Mrs. Miller frowns. “There’s another one on her back. I told you there were two when I came in.”

“Right. Of course. My mind’s been...” I wave vaguely because I have no excuse. Naomi James is a parasite of her own, infecting me at work. “Number two will be out in a jiff.”

With tick number two removed, I send Willow and Mrs. Miller on their way, but my distraction lingers, which is unacceptable. Being a good veterinarian means being caring and attentive to my patients and their owners. I always speak kindly to timid dogs and cats, offer treats, get down on their level to play. Developing a solid reputation is how I’ll own my own clinic in five years. Today I’ve been nothing but absentminded and distant.

The second my last patient leaves, I call Ricky to get the lowdown on his comment, but his cell clicks over to voice mail. I punch the End button and rub my eyes.

Honestly, this is ridiculous. The fact that I can’t let some high school nonsense go is maddening. I hate how on edge I feel. Out of sorts. A normal person would brush off Ricky’s comment and put Naomi and our annoying past out of his mind. But I can’t.

Gray areas like E’s disappearance are why I fell apart all those years ago. Back then, it was like I blacked out and woke up in an alternate world where he never existed. I analyzed our interactions, playing them over and over, searching for some kind of clue as to why he left or where he went. All I got for my efforts were unforgiving headaches and a foul mood to match.

A familiar obsessiveness knots my mind today.

Instead of heading home as usual, I drive to Ricky’s, cursing Naomi the whole way. If I want to sleep tonight, unraveling this mystery isn’t optional. If I want to do my job properly, I need answers. Which means I’m not leaving Ricky’s until I learn what ridiculous grudge has fueled Naomi’s antagonism for seven years.

3

Like me, Ricky lives in a colorful home in the heart of historic Windfall. His Victorian-inspired house is light blue with white trim. Mine is purple and yellow, just a few streets over, a slice of beautiful real estate my folks own and let me rent for cheap.

From my spot on Ricky’s front porch, I wave every few minutes to neighbors arriving home or walking their dogs along the hickory-lined streets.

“Beautiful night,” Alexa Martinez calls from next door. “If you’re waiting for Ricky, he’s still at the Wheeler house, working on their cabinets.”

“Thanks for the intel.” I lean into the rocking chair Ricky built, letting its swaying rhythm calm me. “Just enjoying the night while I wait.”

She waves and opens her door, releasing sounds of her grunting pug Petunia and her three kids into the warm, spring air.

As I wait, two more people fill me in on Ricky’s evening activities, including the fact that he recently stopped for a burger at the Smash Shack. My stomach rumbles at the thought of those juicy burgers and crispy onion rings.

When Ricky’s truck finally pulls into his driveway, he gets out with two paper bags. “Heard you were here. Figured you might be hungry.”

Living in a thimble-sized town with nosy inhabitants has its perks. “Did you get hot peppers on my burger?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

“And onion rings?”

“I hope that’s rhetorical.”

Man, do I love this guy. I usually stick to a healthy diet, but Smash Shack burgers are too good to turn down. We hunker down on his porch, him on the bench he built, me leaning forward on the rocking chair, burger juice dripping down our chins as we cram our faces with the best burgers and rings in North Carolina.

When we come up for air, he wipes his mouth with a napkin and sips his soda. “Why are you here midweek?”

It’s not a rude question. Ricky just knows my schedule. I run daily between 6:30 a.m. and 7:30 a.m. During the week I grab coffee at Sugar and Sips, then work at the clinic from 8:30 a.m. to 6:30 p.m., followed by dinner and TV or reading during the weeknights. I see my grandmother every Saturday morning for a game of cribbage and her usual ribbing. Saturday nights I hang out with friends, when I’m not on call at the clinic. Sundays are for filling in my spreadsheets and tracking finances, and once a month I go for dinner at my folks’, where my sister nags me about my stagnant love life and our mother cooks mountains of food.

After E disappeared, predictability and order became the cornerstones of my life.

Predictability Naomi has obliterated. “I’m shaking things up,” I tell Ricky.

“Something happen at work?”

I crumple my wrapper and napkin and shove it into my paper bag. “Work was fine.” When I wasn’t distracted and forgetting to remove ticks. “You actually said something this morning that surprised me and I wanted to ask about it.”

“Was it the part where I said I was looking forward to you and Naomi murdering each other with your eyes tomorrow?” His wide grin is as annoying as you’d imagine.

I give him the finger. “No, but it’s related.”

“Huh.” He scratches his shaggy hair, then leans back into his bench and clasps his hands behind his head. “I can’t believe this day has finally come.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What day?”

“The day you finally admit you’ve got it bad for Naomi.”

The asshole must have gotten a concussion at work. “If by having it bad you mean I despise Naomi and every poisonous word out of her serpent mouth, then sure—I have it bad.”

He chuckles as he looks up at the fading sky. “Whatever, man. Keep your head in the sand if you want.”

“Says the guy who makes fuck-me eyes at Aaron every morning and doesn’t speak to him.”

He flattens his lips. My neck itches.

I do not have it bad for Naomi James. I’m not an enamored teen any longer. My body may react to her proximity, but that’s a chemical response. Surface attraction. “Having it bad” implies I like the woman she’s become, venomous tongue and all. It suggests I hunger to take her out, talk for hours, kiss her deeply, learn everything I can about her likes and hopes and dreams.

I’d rather sleep in a bed of fleas. “Before you left Sugar and Sips, you said Naomi doesn’t hate me because I derailed her school campaign.”

Ricky runs his tongue over his teeth. “She totally hated you for the campaign thing, but that’s obviously not the main reason.”

“Nothing’s obvious to me.”

“Dude, that rude stuff you said about her in the hall that day—of course it pissed her off.”

Rude stuff? I rub my temples, focusing on the wooden slats under my shoes as I sift through my teen years. Not an easy exercise. Except for my worst and best memories—E disappearing, Naomi’s soft eyes when she offered me comfort, my numbskull Mission Impossible moves tearing up those posters—the rest is a soupy mess of vague interactions and school tests, family laughs and squabbles. “I realize I’ve said some colorful things about Naomi in recent years, but aside from the poster stunt, I was nothing but nice to her in high school.”

I even apologized to her after that mess. A year later, I saw her outside Duke’s Market and got walloped by a flood of guilt. Instead of ignoring her out of shame, I marched up to Naomi and said, “I’m sorry.” She took one look at me, hardened her jaw, and marched away.

“I know you were nice to her before that shit,” Ricky says, eyeing me oddly. “But we’ve talked about this—not recently, but over the years. You’ve said you regretted how awful you were to her.”

“Yeah…awful, meaning I felt badly for ruining her campaign.”

He stares at me a beat, then drags his hand down his face. “Holy shit. You have no clue.”

“No clue about what?” I’ve morphed from pathetically obsessed to decidedly concerned. These vague hints that I was mean to Naomi and blacked it out has those onion rings fermenting in my stomach.

Ricky sighs. “The morning after your little stunt, we were all in the hallway talking shit.”

That part is as painfully clear as always. How ill I felt, the suffocating shame—my worst day immortalized with the kind of clarity only guilt can shine. “Shawn was going on about some Cameron Diaz movie and how hot she was.”

Ricky points at me, grinning. “Right, yeah. I forgot that part. Anyway, we were talking about girls afterward, while I played the role of on-the-prowl heterosexual, pretending I had it bad for Ella May Saunders. Then Shawn was razzing you about Naomi, saying he couldn’t believe you ruined her campaign because he thought you had a thing for her.”

I squint so hard my head pinches. “I don’t remember talking about Naomi.” But I do remember how out of sorts I was, unable to follow the hallway conversation, barely listening while my pulse pounded in my ears.

“Yeah, well, that’s when you said Naomi was gross and the only way you’d touch her was if she was wearing a paper bag over her head.”

“I said what?” Every muscle in my body seizes.

“I’d rather not repeat it, and she heard every word.”

A car door slams down the street. A dog barks from a neighboring yard.

I’m so frozen my next heartbeat could crack my ribs.

I didn’t insult Naomi. I wanted Naomi more than anyone, but I replay the expression on her face that day, how utterly destroyed she looked. I sift through the moments leading up to that disaster—how angry I was at myself, annoyed with my friends for having a normal, stupid conversation about movies and Cameron Diaz when I was scared and upset and…

Oh, shit.

A snippet of that conversation snaps back: me burning with pent-up rage as I ripped the ketchup-stained Bristol board from my shirt and snarled at Shawn, saying, “She’s fucking gross. If I ran into her at a party, the only way I’d touch her is if she was wearing a paper bag over her head, so just shut up about her already.”

My burger and rings threaten to eject. “I said that stuff about Cameron Diaz,” I tell Ricky, my words sounding desperate. “I was so upset about what I did to Naomi’s posters I tuned out half the conversation and had no clue you switched topics. I was totally into Naomi back then. I’d never have said anything rude about her.” I shouldn’t have said something so crass about a random celebrity, let alone a girl I liked.

“Well, shit.” Silence lingers. Ricky picks at the calluses on his hand. “I mean, that makes a lot more sense. I just assumed you were lashing out the way you did after E disappeared, so I didn’t harp on you about it.”

“That’s why she hates me,” I mumble more to myself than to him.

I thought I needed this answer, this irritating blank spot in my past filled in. I figured the knowledge would give me closure, allow me to squash my attraction to Naomi. I’d finally quit letting her antics annoy me. But as I eventually leave Ricky’s, drive home, and watch TV in an attempt to clear my mind, my thoughts spin faster than a hamster on a wheel. I keep dissecting how much my careless words—a complete misunderstanding—must have hurt Naomi back then. I keep replaying the shock on her face, the lone tear gliding down her cheek.

And fuck. Last week? When she hit my car? I yelled at her to quit giving me dirty looks while blaming me for the accident. Her reply comes back to me now, a flood of shame accompanying the memory.

“Should I put a paper bag over my head?” she said, harsh. “Will that make it easier for you to talk to me?”

Holding onto hostility for seven years means she was likely as into me back then as I was into her. It means I shook her self-esteem, or worse. And instead of squashing my continual thoughts of Naomi James, I’ve just accomplished the opposite. I now have no clue how to feel about the woman I’ve considered my enemy for the better part of a decade.

4

I push open the door to Sugar and Sips, groggy from lack of sleep, while simultaneously edgy and nervous. I want Naomi to be here. I don’t want her to be here. I want to apologize. Explain that I wasn’t talking about her in high school. I also don’t want to rehash this mess.

She’s here, of course. The last person in line.

I swear, she knows exactly when I’m about to walk in. She must zip inside right before me, like a high-heeled ninja, ensuring I’m stuck behind her.

I don’t feel stuck today. I feel aware.

When the front door falls shut behind me and the bell above tinkles, she glances over her shoulder. Her usual smug expression doesn’t make me bristle. The hard cut of her dark eyes feels different. Instead of a villainous vixen, I see a hurt girl under her tough exterior.

Remorse hits me again, harder this time.

I never talk to Naomi in line. We ignore each other, while imagining ways to murder each other’s patience. This morning, I can’t stay quiet. I have no clue what to say, how to broach this seven-year-old conflict that has shaped us both. I settle on reverting to teenage me, who can’t utter more than one syllable to women.

“Hi,” I say quietly.

She doesn’t reply.

If I wasn’t watching her body like the sleep-deprived, Naomi-conscious soul I am, I’d wonder if she heard me over the whirring coffee machine and the café’s acoustic tunes. Since my attention hasn’t drifted from the soft fabric of her blue wrap dress hugging her curves, I don’t miss the tiny pulse of her shoulders, the way she freezes infinitesimally afterward. She’s likely wondering what game I’m playing. Or she’s pondering which weapon to draw from her arsenal, when to pounce and make the first cut.

Even worse? Her hair is up in a bun and the urge to trace her jawline with my lips strikes.

In the past, I’d have fisted my hands angrily, frustrated with my body’s reaction to Naomi. Today? I’m…curious. I suddenly want to relive how I used to ache around her, desperate to ask her out but terrified to lose another person in my life. I lost her in the end, pushed her away intentionally—and unintentionally—before she could hurt me. All these years later, emotion still simmers under our messed up history. And I’m still awkward around her.

The person in front of her steps forward, but Naomi doesn’t budge—her predictable first strike. I, however, do the last thing I ever thought I’d do in this situation.

I fight a smile.

“Don’t do that.” The high-heeled ninja strikes again, sensing my amusement from the back of her head, and swivels. She skewers me with one of her perfected scowls. “I don’t appreciate you mocking me with that condescending smile.”

I shrug, going for nonchalant when I’m anything but. “All I said was hi.”

“We don’t say hi. And we don’t”—she gestures aggressively at the amusement on my face—“do this. It’s rude and annoying, and I’m not in the mood.”

Not only do we not smile at each other, Naomi doesn’t lose her cool around me. Aside from our recent fender bender, she’s icy and rigid, oftentimes insulting. This level of upset isn’t our norm.

“Are you okay?” I ask gently, even though we don’t do gentle either. Since last night’s revelation, I’ve lost all sense of normalcy with Naomi.

She clamps her jaw and her hoop earrings quiver. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but leave me out of it.”

Jaw set, she turns and marches forward in line, no longer bothering to annoy me by letting the opening remain, which is odd. I’ve known Naomi long enough to have memorized the nuances of our bitter exchanges. Her volatile reaction and unwillingness to let the space in front of her linger as long as possible for maximum effect is uncharacteristic.

The sudden urge to put my hand on her shoulder surprises me. The itch to give her a compassionate squeeze like she did for me after E left and ask if everything’s okay. But her back’s stiff as a board, and we’ve been enemies too long. Anything I do or say will likely be misconstrued—again. I’ll make whatever’s bothering her worse just by being me.

Still, my chest is knotted, my throat dry. I’m struggling to figure out how to make amends for hurting her accidentally when there’s so much negativity between us.

She makes her way to the counter, not even bothering to hesitate with her order or pay with a mountain of pennies. She moves to the side and waits for her coffee as I order mine. When she turns and collects her order, there’s no missing the glassiness in her eyes and resolute press of her lips. Like she’s trying not to cry.

This isn’t odd. This is downright worrying.

Could saying hi and smiling at her have set her off? Is talking to me really that painful for her? Unlikely. I doubt I rank anywhere on Naomi’s People I Care About Enough to Cry Over Them list.

I open my mouth to say something again, ask if she’s all right again, but she’s walking before I gather the courage, sweeping out the door with clipped steps.

“I figured she’d make you cry before you made her cry,” Delilah says.

Delilah Moon knows a thing or two about men making women cry. She may look happy and healthy now, with her mass of curly hair tied into a ponytail, her pink Baking Queen apron adding a blush to her light skin, but she was dating E when he vanished. While I was confused and angry, shit went sideways for her. A scary, downward spiral we’ve all agreed not to talk about. Thankfully, she’s found a semblance of happiness since that mess, opened this adorable shop, gradually letting people back into her life. She’s become a good friend.

A good friend with Naomi intel.

“The only thing I could do to make Naomi cry is continue to exist, but she did seem off.”

Delilah finishes wiping down a table and adjusts the surrounding chairs. “Must be that fight with her mother.”

I blow on my coffee and take a sip. Rich and robust and perfect. “What fight with her mother?”

Delilah freezes, one hand on a chair back. “Nothing specific. Just, you know…” She waves vaguely and avoids my eyes.

No, I don’t know. And judging by Delilah’s quick shutdown, she just said something she wasn’t supposed to.

Looking guilty as hell, she hurries away, leaving the scene of her crime.

More confused and unsettled, I head to work. Where I’m once again preoccupied.

Long neck. Hoop earrings. Blue wrap dress stretched over sensual hips.

Glassy eyes.

Getting licked by Samar Abelman’s new golden retriever puppy helps harness my focus. I get on the floor with Dusty, let him clamber on me and nip at my ear with his sharp, little teeth. “Keep your shoes and loose cords off the floor at home. This one’s liable to chew through anything.”

Samar crouches and receives a lick on the nose for his efforts. “My favorite sneakers are already trashed.” He smooshes his face into Dusty’s fur. “Totally worth it.”

We talk vaccinations and dog food and general puppy health, then I send my last patient and pet parent on their way. I chat with the vet tech about tomorrow’s schedule and discuss our delayed shipment of deworming meds with Claire, who is a great boss. She’s as fastidious as me, always looking ahead, keeping a tight rein on finances, investing a portion of her earnings back into Ridgeview. Her professionalism is a reminder I need to quit this Naomi preoccupation and focus on what matters: my job, building my savings account, working toward my five-year plan.

In five years, I’ll own my own vet clinic. I’ll pay my parents back for helping me with college, buy the house I’m renting from them now, and I’ll meet my future wife, someone who shares my joy of quiet nights and planning for our future. People might call my life goals mundane or boring. For me, after the shock of E’s disappearance, consistency and predictability kept me grounded.

My thoughts still skitter to Naomi, as they’ve done often today, and my stomach does an unpleasant swoop. I can’t tell if it’s a guilt swoop or a worried swoop. Or a why can’t I ditch thoughts of my supposed enemy swoop. Whatever the cause, by the time I leave the empty clinic to drive home, I’m drained and tired.

I slide into my rental car, which smells like someone used to smoke in it, and pull onto the quiet road. The clinic is close enough to town to be easily accessible, but far enough on the outskirts to draw business from Windfall’s surrounding farms. The drive along this gravel road is peaceful and relaxing. At least, it usually is. Tonight, my headlights catch on a person sitting on the side of the road, clutching her leg as though hurt. By the time I slow down and recognize the woman’s regal bone structure, my heart punches at my ribs.

I’m parked and out the door in seconds, rushing to Naomi’s side. “Are you okay? What happened?”

My headlights are still on, illuminating the tears tracking her cheeks and the gash on her shin. “It’s nothing,” she murmurs, turning her head away from me. “I was running and tripped. Just need to walk it off.”

When Naomi James isn’t being vindictive, she’s as stubborn as a spiteful mule.

I place my hand gently on her back, and she flinches. The move guts me. She can’t stand to be this close to me, even when she needs help.

Sighing, I examine the gash. “That’s not nothing, Naomi. You need stitches. And why are you running in the dark at this hour?”

“Why I run or do anything isn’t your business.”

“It is when the road’s deserted and you’re hurt.”

A coyote howls from the nearby forest. Naomi tips up her defiant chin. “According to that sound, I’m not alone.”

Did I say stubborn as a mule? More like as infuriating as a child who refuses to admit she’s tired. “I’m sorry,” I say, upping my sarcasm to ten. “I didn’t realize you were a shape shifter and often hang out with your coyote pack. But that makes a lot of sense, considering how feral you are with me.”

“I am not feral,” she snarls.

I rest my case. “And I don’t shake with frustration when you take eighty-nine years to order and pay for your morning coffee.”

Her lips twitch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oh, she definitely knows. Naomi for sure has a running list of my weak spots. It’s probably written in blood. Which means there’s only one way to convince her to accept my assistance. “In case you were wondering, I’m exhausted and hungry, and the last thing I want to do is linger here another minute. The mere idea of lifting you into my car has me annoyed.” Because I’m not sure wrapping my arms around Naomi will help me kick thoughts of her. “So I can either leave you here and heave a huge sigh of relief when I drive away from your bloodied body, which may or may not get eaten by your coyote brethren, or you can ruin my already long day by letting me help you.”

She brushes loose gravel off the area around her bleeding cut, then picks tiny stones from her palm. When I’m on the verge of going caveman on her and tossing her into my smoke-smelling car against her will, she says a disgruntled, “Fine.”

“Fine, what?”

“Fine, you can drop me off at home.”

I still want to apologize to her for our teenage misunderstanding. I also want to throttle her stubborn neck. “You need stitches, so I’ll be dropping you off at the hospital.”

Something flashes in her eyes. A hint of fear? “I can’t go there. Home is fine.”

“Jesus, Naomi. What’s the big deal? If your mother’s working tonight, you won’t even have to wait.”

Her eyes go watery. She drops her gaze. “I can’t see my mother tonight. Just drop me at home, okay?”

The vulnerability and pain in her voice is unmistakable, as is this renewed swooping of my stomach. This hollowing isn’t a guilt swoop. It’s an I hate that you’re hurting swoop, which confuses me even more.

I clear my throat. “Lucky for you, I’m good with sutures and the clinic isn’t far. Let’s get you into my car.”

Without waiting for her to snarl again and tell me she’d rather get devoured by wild animals than accept my assistance, I wrap one arm around her back and steady her with my hand on her hip. The warmth of her against me is instant, my thighs flexing with awareness. She’s wearing a tank top and tiny running shorts, both fabrics thin and clingy.

More than my thighs flex.

Once she’s on her feet, she tries to put weight on her cut leg and falls into my side. “You suck at holding me up.” She may be insulting me, but her tone’s more pleasant than I’ve heard in years.

I tighten my grip on her hip, can’t seem to control how my fingers spread wider and press into her. “You suck at waiting in line.”

She laughs, then schools her face. “I don’t think you coming near me with a needle is a good idea.”

“You can hold a scalpel to my neck while I do it. I know you fantasize about slicing my jugular.”

“I don’t.” But her shoulders shake with barely suppressed amusement.

“You do.”

“No, really, I don’t. It’s more of a beheading, and I place your head on a stake outside my house.”

I laugh outright, always on a seesaw of emotions with this woman. Hate. Attraction. Guilt. Worry. Amusement. Once we’re both in the car, I press the ignition.

She wrinkles her nose. “Since when do you smoke?”

“Since never.” I turn the car around and head back toward the clinic. “But some novice driver rear-ended me, and this is the crap rental car I’m stuck with.”

She doesn’t smile at my joke. She looks downright hurt, which isn’t exactly fair. She’s the one who made a crack about spiking my sliced-off head.

I grip the wheel so tight my fingers pinch. She focuses on the passenger window, the two of us riding the rest of the way in the stretching type of silence that has me squirming.

At the clinic, Naomi, of course, tries to get out of the car on her own and almost falls on her face. Stubborn Witch of Windfall. Instead of letting her hobble to the clinic entrance, I walk over and lift her into my arms, cradling her against my chest.

She sputters and smacks my shoulder. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Being a gentleman.”

“The last thing you are, Avett Lewis, is a gentleman. Put me down.”

I don’t put her down or walk forward. She’s hurt and frustrated. The last thing she needs is to deal with more drama, but as I hold her against my chest, my mind floods with the misunderstanding she’s lived with all these years—overhearing a guy she maybe liked telling his friends she was gross and unattractive—and I can’t wait another second before apologizing.

A cooler breeze drifts through the quiet parking lot. I adjust her in my arms, holding her closer. “You hate me because you think I insulted you in high school.”

She stiffens, her chest barely rising. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Well, I do. It’s been a seven-year misunderstanding that needs to end.” When she doesn’t reply, I take a breath and forge on. “That conversation you overheard, my rude insults—they weren’t directed at you.”

She angles her face toward me, her ponytail swinging with the move, bringing us almost nose-to-nose. Her nails, which could double as talons, dig into my shoulders. “I was there, Avett. I heard what you said and saw that piece of poster you tore apart.”

Such a disaster of a day. “Yes, I ruined your posters. I was in a messed-up place and wasn’t thinking about much besides myself, and I hated myself for sabotaging your campaign. But that rude stuff you overheard? The paper bag and whatever? I thought the guys were talking about Cameron Diaz, not you. I only found out last night that my stupid remarks turned into the Everest of fucked up misunderstandings.”

“You’re so full of shit.” Those talons dig deeper.

Of course she doesn’t believe me. She caught me with the evidence of my actual misdeed. Still, I can’t control my mounting frustration, the urge to shout at her for years of antagonism. “I’m not lying.”

“You sabotaged my campaign,” she whisper-yells. “Of course you’re lying.”

“One thing has nothing to do with the other. Why the hell would I have said those things about you?”

Her laugh is as ugly as my vandalism that day. “Why wouldn’t you have said those things?”

“Because.” When she makes a disgusted sound and turns her face away, I can’t control my building growl. “I was crazy about you, Naomi!”

5

Naomi’s sitting on my stainless steel operating table, hugging her knees, while I grab a cloth and disinfectant and the other items I need. Neither of us has said a word since my shouted admission. I’m not sure what her silence means, but her attention is acute as I move around. There’s a definite change in the air around us. I mean, it smells like antiseptic and the dog treats we keep around the clinic, but the annoyance I’m used to sensing is replaced with…alertness? Like Naomi is looking at me with new eyes. Like she’s trying to figure me out.

I set up a warm bowl of water beside her. “The disinfectant might sting a bit. Grip my arm if you need to.” My voice sounds deep and low. The opposite of my heated words outside.

Instead of grabbing me, she leans back on her hands. “I’m tough. I can take it.”

This woman could hold her own with the Rottweiler who nearly clawed my face off yesterday. She’s smart and strong and a great science teacher. There have been plenty of coffee mornings where I’ve overheard parents thanking her for the extra help she’s given their kids or for finding a way to make science fun. Creative thinking I’ve experienced firsthand.

When Naomi and I were friends in school—after E disappeared but before I sabotaged her campaign—we once found ourselves at the library table and wound up studying for a calculus test together. I was frustrated, messing up the practice questions.

Naomi turned to me and said, “Who would win in a fight, the Flash or Spider-Man?”

“The Flash. No contest. He’s too fast to hit.”

She smiled, revealing the dimple in her left cheek miles more fascinating than word problems. “Right, so—if the Flash’s body position is marked by the displacement function.” She pointed to the calculus function hurting my brain. “How do you calculate the Flash’s acceleration when Spider-Man’s velocity is five?”

Spider-Man. The Flash. Suddenly math was more interesting, and seventeen-year-old me developed a bigger crush on Naomi James.

Steadying my hand, I wet the cloth and press it to her cut. She flinches but doesn’t reach to squeeze my arm. I clean the area as best I can, aware of my every breath and the deep rise and fall of Naomi’s chest. The disinfectant is next. She glances at me, eyes wider. She knows this is the stinging part.

“If you squeeze my arm, your nails will dig through my shirt. It’s not a beheading, but it’ll hurt me.”

The corner of her lips lift. “Are you always this much of a sweet talker?”

“You couldn’t handle my sweet talking,” I murmur, the roughness in my voice surprising me.

Her shoulders tremble. “I hope it’s better than your ability to wait in lines.”

“I have no issues with lines. I have issues with people who don’t move when they should.”

She laughs. Actually laughs with me. “You’re so easy to rile.”

“Maybe it’s just you.”

“What’s just me?”

“You, Naomi James, have always gotten under my skin.”

Our eyes lock. Her pupils flare. Not in annoyance, as is our default setting. There’s no mistaking the heat in her gaze, the curious searching as her eyes roam my face. A tingling takes root at the base of my spine, spreading wider.

Yeah, Naomi doesn’t just get under my skin. Her proximity lights it on fire.

“Ready?” I position the disinfectant-soaked cloth at her gash.

Nodding, she grips my arm and sets her jaw. The second I apply the antiseptic she jerks and squeezes my biceps.

I wince. “Your nails could double as instruments of torture.”

She eases up slightly. “If I wanted to torture you, all I’d have to do is steal your alarm clock.”

I dab at her wound, hating how fast she’s breathing. In pain fast. “What has my alarm clock ever done to you?”

“It’s not what it’s done to me. It would mess up your regimented schedule. Imagine the joy it would bring me.”

If her stealing it meant she spent the night at my place, I might not be as furious as she imagines. Still, her insinuation irks me. “I’m not regimented.”

“Sorry. Do you prefer the term anal?”

This is what comes from living in Windfall. I can’t hide my morning runs, my regular coffee routine, the exact hour I pull into and leave the clinic, or when I grocery shop and invariably buy one loaf of bread, sliced turkey, steak and chicken, and the same vegetables to make my single-serve salads and grilled side dishes, avoiding sugary and processed foods. Naomi can’t hide that she’s had three speeding tickets this year and that she loves ordering a vanilla milkshake with her burger at the Smash Shack. People here know the minutiae of everyone’s day.

“I’m not anal,” I say anyway.

She raises a sculpted eyebrow. “You make the army look disorganized.”

I press the disinfectant cloth firmer to her wound. She squirms, then digs her fingernails deeper.

The suturing goes smoothly after that. Naomi’s tough, as expected. She closes her eyes and keeps still, her nostrils flaring as she breathes through the pain.

When I’m done and have applied a bandage, she dangles her legs off the table edge. “Were you serious before? You didn’t actually say those things about me?”

I’m still off balance around this version of Naomi. Vulnerable Naomi. Tender-voiced Naomi. It’s all upping my attraction to her, a pull I’ve never managed to kick. “I was serious about that. And the other part,” I add, stepping closer and placing my hand beside hers on the table.

She glances up at me. “What other part?”

Enthralled by her breathy tone, I move my hand a bit, enough for my thumb to cover her pinky finger. “I was crazy about you in high school.”

I don’t utter a word about how hot and bothered I am right now, our bodies so close, the quiet so quiet, the heavy air between us thickening with what I believe is sexual tension.

Her chest swells, breasts rising higher, pushing at the thin fabric of her tank top. She bites her lip, glances down shyly. When she looks back up, the intensity of her gaze has heat flaring behind my ribs. “Avett…”

She trails off. Another expression crosses her face I can’t decipher, but I remember how off she was this morning, how down she seemed. Delilah’s comment about some fight Naomi had with her mother. Running this late at night could be her way of running from an issue bothering her.

I move my whole hand on top of hers, the simple contact zinging up my arm. “You seemed sad this morning, and then this run, and you didn’t want me to take you to the hospital in case you saw your mother. Is everything okay?”

Instantly, she goes rigid. She pulls her hand from under mine and hops off the table. “Just some family stuff. No big deal. Anyway, it’s late. We should both get home, but thanks for the stitches, and for not stabbing me while you worked.” She tosses me a cheeky grin, but it’s thin. There’s no mistaking the diversion tactic. “Hopefully your alarm clock doesn’t go on the fritz tomorrow and send your day into a tailspin.”

I have a backup alarm for my alarm. Yes, I am that organized. Not anal. The only thing that will go on the fritz and send my day into a tailspin is the erratic beating of my heart, which is suddenly very attuned to the villainous vixen I used to despise.

6

My alarm blares at 6:07 a.m. Once I silence it, my backup alarm goes off at 6:11. I head out for my morning run at 6:30 and finish with sit-ups, push-ups, and pull-ups.

When I buy this house from my parents in five years, I plan to convert the basement office into a proper home gym. I won’t change much of the general decor. I love the light blue dining room and white pocket doors that open into the country kitchen.

Hopefully the woman I marry will love the understated and comfy furniture, the wildflowers in the backyard, the cute bench and flagstones laid out to make the outdoor space warm and contemplative. I often picture myself laying out a blanket on the grass, with a spread of cheese and wine and chocolate. A backyard picnic with my future wife, in this quaint neighborhood that will become our home.

I wonder if Naomi would love that type of simple romance.

I wonder if she enjoys tender nights with lovers or experimenting and testing her boundaries. If I had to bet, based on the tormenting woman I’ve come to know, I’d say she loves taking control, using filthy words and bold moves to drive her partners crazy.

I wonder about Naomi as I shower, imagining the taste of her skin, how those nails would feel digging into my ass. I grip myself and stroke to the rhythm of my fantasies, tighter, faster, coming in thick streams like I’m seventeen again, desperate and horny and consumed by Naomi James.

I trim my short beard, then drive to Sugar and Sips, thinking about our overlapped fingers on my operating table, the confusing emotions she inspires, this woman I hate. This woman I’ve always crushed on. This woman I can’t seem to shake.

Then I replay her one-eighty in the clinic, brushing me off and closing down when I asked if she was okay. Honestly, seven years later, I’m still a mess over Naomi James, unsure how she feels about me, worried any move will end in blunt rejection.

I park and walk toward our coffee shop, nerves dampening my palms. Two steps from coffee nirvana an irrational fear strikes me. Naomi won’t be here. With last night’s confessions, I’ve rearranged our history. Changed our relationship and all it means. Maybe she doesn’t care about me anymore. She might have only come to Sugar and Sips to aggravate me. With my apology and our mutual understanding, her need to annoy me might have dissipated. She might make coffee at home and quit invading my life.

I won’t see her every weekday morning between my run and my drive to work.

I walk faster, nearly tearing the coffee shop’s door from its hinge. And…fuck. She’s not here. There are three people in line, and she’s not one of them. The rush of disappointment is so forceful I press my fist to my chest.

The sound of high heels jolts me. I’d know that regal click-clack anywhere.

I glance up.

Naomi.

She saunters from the bathrooms, purse slung over her shoulder, long hair in a bun, slim black pants covering my bandage and stitches. Her dark eyes do a sweep of me, from my shoes to the top of my collared shirt. The abs I worked on this morning flex in response.

Wordless, she slides into line, in front of me as usual. Her sleeveless, coral blouse is as beachy as the island scents that hit me. I wonder what it would be like to wake up to her feminine smell on my sheets and skin. I wonder if she tastes like a vacation, like sunshine and freedom and letting loose.

I wonder

I wonder

I wonder

All my life, all I’ve done about Naomi James is wonder, never once following through on my pent up attraction.

When Mrs. Jackson, who runs quilting classes in her home, moves forward in line, I tense. In the past, I’d be seething, on the edge of fury, knowing Naomi was one second away from lighting my fuse. Today, I’m worried she’ll step forward.

I want the antagonism.

I want the game. Our game.

Her head tilts slightly to the right. She shifts on her feet and adjusts her purse…and she doesn’t move.

I grin so wide my cheeks hurt.

Inching closer, I bend toward her ear. “The person in front of you moved.”

She remains immobile, all but the goose bumps descending her neck. “I’m aware.”

As am I, of the way her perfume enflames my senses. Heat tightens my groin. “How do you live with yourself?”

I can’t see her face, but I sense her smile. “I thrive on the discomfort of others.”

“At this rate, you’ll be immortal.”

A surprising sound escapes her. An actual laugh. She angles her head, giving me that alluring chin, those hoop earrings, the corner of her feline eye. “I’ll never tire of reliving how the steam billows from your ears when you’re annoyed.”

My next inhale is more weighted. Deep enough to have my chest touching her back. My fingers flex. An unconscious move to reach out and touch her, pull her closer, erase the distance between us and the mistakes I’ve made. Mistakes I’m tired of reliving, including the most important one: never asking Naomi out. As a teen, I was in self-preservation mode. As we got older, I was annoyed with her over our misunderstandings. Not acting on my attraction now would be foolish. This connection, whatever it is, has never gone away. Ignoring her pull would only enflame it. Living with that kind of regret isn’t a bitter pill I care to swallow.

The line moves forward again. Naomi continues to hold her villainous stance, which is no longer so irksome. This game of ours is almost…fun.

Gathering the courage I didn’t have seven years ago, I dip my head back down toward her ear, and say, “Go out with me, Naomi. Let me take you on a date.”

Her body shudders. Mine is stiff, on the edge of anticipating her reply. She turns her head slightly, a hesitant move that has her lips grazing my jaw. I desperately want to kiss her. Here. Now. I want to rip off her blouse, drag down those slim pants, finally know how it feels to be surrounded by Naomi, push into her, unleash our supressed angst as we sweat and thrust and tell each other the things we’ve never said.

Then she straightens her posture and lifts her chin. “Now’s not a good time,” is all she says.

She marches forward in line, leaving me standing there like an idiot. Rejected. As I always predicted, but we were just flirting. It was two-sided. Or am I so blind when it comes to Naomi I can’t even discern flirting from friendliness?

When she moves to order her coffee and eventually leaves the shop without bothering to glance at me, I finally exhale. At least I tried. I won’t live with regrets, wondering if she’s the chance I didn’t take.

The door chimes. Ricky comes in as I gather my coffee and try to shirk my disappointment. “I heard you had an interesting car passenger last night,” he says, smug.

Delilah zooms toward us from around the counter, her blue eyes bright with pent up gossip. Her apron of the day reads: Your opinion wasn’t in the recipe. “I heard your car lingered outside her house after you dropped her off.”

Seriously? Is this town that hard up for entertainment they plaster their faces to their windows instead of watching TV? I mean, I may have lingered outside Naomi’s home after dropping her off, making sure she got inside okay. Since when is being a gentleman a crime? The fact that I watched her lights go on and couldn’t seem to drive away is no one’s concern but my own. If I spent that time wondering—always wondering about Naomi—if she decorated her home in pastel colors like her wardrobe or painted it in shades of blood like her evil alter ego, is my business alone.

I sip my coffee and burn my tongue. Such is my morning. “Naomi fell on the road by the vet clinic. I helped her. Nothing else to report.”

Especially the fact that she just rejected me. Finally. Officially.

Delilah nudges Ricky’s arm. “You should have seen them before. I could’ve used their flirting to steam the milk.”

Ricky raises an I-told-you-so eyebrow at me. “Finally took your head out of the sand, I see? Guess the revelation changed the game.”

“There’s no game to be played,” I say more forcefully than intended. “Naomi wasn’t flirting.”

“She was completely flirting with you.” Delilah’s tone indicates she thinks I’m still a teenage boy. Aka: a complete moron. Gotta love my closest friends. “And of what revelation do you speak?” she asks Ricky.

“Apparently our boy didn’t slander Naomi the day he ruined her campaign.” He twirls his wrists, as though he’s a magician about to reveal an insidious trick. “He was dissing Cameron Diaz.”

Delilah scrunches her face. “Cameron Diaz is gorgeous.”

“She absolutely is. This one”—Ricky hooks a thumb toward me—“has issues.”

“If he thinks Naomi wasn’t flirting with him,” Delilah says, “his issues have issues.” She’s clearly trying not to laugh at me, but Delilah is a crap actress. She was cringeworthy in our high school production of Oliver!

“He is standing right beside you,” I say, giving them both hard looks. “And I asked Naomi on a date while in line. She turned me down flat. So who has issues now?”

Ricky scratches his beard. “That’s surprising.”

“No, it isn’t,” Delilah says with a hint of gloating.

I bristle. Gloating indicates she knows something we don’t. When Delilah gets ahead of us on town gossip, she lives to rub it in our faces.

Curious, I lead us away from the new line forming. “What do you know that I don’t?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Delilah feigns sweetness so thick my teeth hurt.

“I hate you like this,” Ricky tells her. “I swear one day I’ll hear something before you.”

I don’t have the patience to wait until that day. Not when Delilah’s usurped Naomi’s former role of Woman Who Drives Me to Drink. “Spill it or I tell everyone in town you accidentally did a shot of dog urine at my house.”

On that unforgettable morning, my neighbor, who was worried about his dog but heading on vacation, asked if I’d take the sample into work with me. Happy to help him out, I obliged. Delilah, who popped in to borrow my hand blender, was thirsty and mistook it for apple juice.

Her blue eyes narrow. “Do that and Windfall learns about a certain naked boy hiding in the school closet one afternoon.”

“I will murder you in your sleep.” Then I’ll move across the country and live as a hermit. The details of that embarrassing incident will be buried with me the day I die.

We glare at each other, neither of us backing down.

“You mean I wasn’t the only guy in the closet in high school?” Ricky says, his joke effectively ending our stare off.

Delilah gives my shoulder a loving pat. “Your closet secret’s safe with me, and Naomi didn’t turn you down because she doesn’t like you. From what I can tell, she’s been into you since high school, even though your unintended insult crushed her. But she has stuff going on. It’s not personal.”

Everything between Naomi and me is personal. We both take each other’s rebukes hard because we both care. “Does this have to do with some fight she had with her mother?”

“In a roundabout way, but I don’t want to spread rumors.”

Ricky and I share a since when look.

Aaron walks into the shop then, his attention zeroing in on Ricky. Ricky assumes his faux-casual pose, like he’s pretending he doesn’t notice Aaron, while offering his best angle to be ogled.

“I don’t want to spread rumors about my friends,” Delilah adds. “All I can say is talk to her. You two have always been that meant-to-be couple I’ve rooted for, even with all the antagonizing games you play. Stay true to your heart.” There’s wistfulness in her tone and a hint of sadness.

How can I not heed her advice?

Delilah was head-over-heels in love with E before he vanished. As far as I knew, he was mad about her too. The fact that he left without telling her goodbye, explaining himself, or offering her closure angers me to this day. Still, she continues to believe in the possibility of happily ever after. She’s sad and melancholy at times, and often furious if E’s name comes up, but she hasn’t given up on the idea of love.

I need to take a page from Delilah’s book and not give up. Push Naomi. Find out why she maybe has feelings for me but is fighting them. I’ve certainly been attracted to her for almost a decade. Which means it’s time to change the game. Figure out how to win over my nemesis so we can finally test if hate and passion are flipsides of the same coin.

7

I spent this week reading Cosmopolitan magazine. Cosmopolitan is a women’s publication. I want to win Naomi over, and Naomi is a woman. Even better, the magazine’s teaming with dating advice. I even found an article titled “5 Tricks to Seducing Your Enemy.”

I paraphrased the five points and wrote them in a spreadsheet.

Trick One: Show your enemy a glimpse of your softer side.

Trick Two: Prove you can be trusted.

Trick Three: When the time’s right, reveal your true feelings.

Trick Four: Be bold. Enemies harbor strong emotions and don’t respond to subtlety.

Trick Five: Put your heart on the line, even if it’s a risk.

Even without my Cosmo advice, Naomi and I are making strides toward non-enemy-ship. We’re now coffee line friends. The past week, we’ve said hi to each other every morning. She still pushes my buttons with her antics, but there’s a comradery to our snide remarks and needling stunts. We even banded together yesterday, ganging up on Ricky, nudging him to talk to Aaron.

This morning I plan to implement Cosmopolitan’s very important Trick One: Show your enemy a glimpse of your softer side.

My Saturday routine still involves my usual wakeup time and morning run. Sleeping in disrupts patterns. If I lounge in bed, I’m groggier and slower throughout my day. Ricky thinks I’m nuts to wake up early on the weekends, but routine keeps me productive and happy. After my Saturday run, I never go to town or visit Sugar and Sips for a dose of Naomi jousting. I visit with my grandmother instead, where we play cribbage and she usually beats me.

This morning, I made a change. I haven’t upended my day like some kind of reckless rebel, but I’ve tweaked it. Naomi spends Saturday mornings in Sugar and Sips with her laptop, working on her lesson plans or grading or whatever it is teachers do. I know this because Ricky mentioned it once, and I vowed never to walk in there on those days. It was one thing enduring her evil sorcery every weekday morning. There was no need to ruin my Saturdays as well.

Things have obviously changed on the Naomi front, so I suggested to Gran that I take her into town, where we’ll play cards in my favorite coffee shop, instead of in her farmhouse kitchen.

Gran holds my arm as we walk down Main Street, no longer as quick as she used to be. “You’re up to something,” she says bluntly.

While her body is slower, her mind isn’t, and I tense. Although Gran was a stay-at-home mother, she’d have made an excellent private eye. “I’m up to nothing but spending the morning with my favorite grandparent.”

“Your only living grandparent.” She wields her famous side-eye, an assessing look that’s part challenging, part disapproving, and all intimidating. “You, Avett Samuel Lewis, are up to something. No matter how much I pester you to change your routine, you don’t like coming to town on the weekends. You haven’t seen this side of Bear Lake on a Saturday morning since college.”

She’s right. She pesters me plenty and I don’t listen. Yet, here I am.

Blunt grandmother aside, I’m surprised how charmed I am by the atmosphere. The town square is dotted with families and couples and singles on picnic blankets, reading and lounging. Some kids play frisbee, while others run with their dogs. The mermaid fountain splashes happily under the shade of the large oak, the surrounding shops and galleries punctuated with flower urns and brightly painted Open signs.

I’ve always loved Windfall’s temperate climate and positive vibe. I’m not sure if it’s the hiking trails and outdoor pursuits that draw nature-loving people, or the large artist population that fills our farmers’ market and quaint shops. Whatever the reason, Windfall’s an open-minded hamlet with a festival for every season, including the upcoming Spring Fair, complete with tractor races, hay bale mazes, and enough homemade sweets to keep the local dentists flush. But as we pass the Lazy Tree art gallery and our local bookstore, the Sandpiper’s Nest, I realize I’m always rushing around, not strolling slow enough to really see this serene place where I live.

When we reach Sugar and Sips, Gran stops abruptly. “There’s a girl.”

I glance around. Jolene Daniels is sitting at an outside table with Maggie Edelstein. Mrs. Jackson, our town’s famed quilting maven, is sipping her coffee next to them. “There are several girls,” I say warily, unsure what she’s getting at. “If we’re playing I Spy, I need more of a clue.”

She mumbles, “Pain in my ass.” Then says louder, “I’ve been thinking on it, and as far as I can guess, the only reason you’d alter your weekend schedule is because of a girl.”

The last time I lied to Gran, I was fifteen. E and I stole her tractor for a joyride and got it stuck in a ditch. Terrified of her iron fist, I proceeded to run to her farmhouse and ranted about some wild man who must have stolen her tractor and ditched it. She took one look at my shifty eyes and trembling hands, and said, “Avett Samuel Lewis, you are a liar and a thief. As such, you’ll clean the horse stalls every weekend for a year.”

Instead of attempting to evade her lie detector skills, I reply with a pathetic, “Maybe?”

She makes a clucking sound. “Am I here to meet this new woman in your life because she’s important to you, or have you dragged your grandmother into town like bait so you can puff up your chest and strut around like a peacock, proving how doting and kind of a grandson you are?”

I shrink, attempting to make my six-foot-two frame smaller. How can she read me so easily? “I plead the Fifth.”

She harrumphs. “You’ll be pleading something, all right. Let’s get this over with.”

This is why I should never alter my routines. Bad things happen when change occurs, and I’ve grossly miscalculated this stunt. When I planned this outing, I pictured Gran and I playing cribbage at a table inside, joking and chatting the way we do. Naomi would watch us periodically, touched and moved by our close relationship. In that iteration, Gran wasn’t onto my scheme, intent on foiling my efforts. I’m no longer hoping Naomi is inside for her usual Saturday morning work session. Now I’m praying she’s not here.

But my luck seems to be lousy.

The second the chiming door slides shut behind us, I spot Naomi nestled in one of the loveseats by the side window. I try not to let my eyes linger on her yellow T-shirt and the way it hangs enticingly off one smooth shoulder. I bite my cheek when I remember touching her leg—which is on display in criminally short jean shorts—to apply her bandage.

Schooling my face, I focus on the chalkboard menu behind the counter. “Do you want your usual peppermint tea this morning?”

Gran doesn’t reply. To my horror, she yanks me to the right and walks toward Naomi.

This is not okay. I am not okay. On a scale of candid to viciously Malcolm, Gran’s bluntness hovers around someone shoot me now.

Naomi looks up as we near, her eyes darting back and forth between what must be my expression of abject fear and Gran’s determinedly pursed lips.

“Hi, Avett…” Naomi says slowly, removing her hands from her laptop keyboard. I glimpse what looks like a jungle and ruins on her screen, but she abruptly shuts her computer. “I never see you on Saturdays.”

“Right, well.” I debate the best thing to say to avoid Gran unleashing enough honesty to bury me. There’s no clear path forward. “This is my grandmother, by the way. Don’t think you’ve ever met.”

Complete avoidance for the win.

The cotton of my T-shirt chafes my chest. Sweat builds along the waistline of my shorts.

Naomi narrows her eyes at me, then smiles at Gran. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Lewis. I think you took a yarn class with my dad once.”

I’ve always found Naomi’s parents cool. I don’t know them well, but her mother’s an orthopedic surgeon, and her father’s a knitter who sells scarves and sweaters and baby blankets to shops, while teaching knitting classes. They’ve flipped society’s gender expectations when it comes to work and financial support, but their interesting jobs do nothing to distract me from my rising anxiety.

“Yes, dear,” Gran says, clasping her hands. “I believe I did take that class. And I think my grandson has a crush on you.”

I close my eyes and pray for this to be a horrible nightmare. Naomi’s muffled laugh makes it clear I’m sadly awake.

“Does he now?” Naomi is elated. She’s high on my discomfort. A glow of mischief turns her eyes into twin orbs of wicked delight. “The evidence I’ve collected over the years refutes that theory. Your grandson’s awful to me.”

Gran pinches my side. “This isn’t grade school, Avett. Being mean to girls does not win them over.”

Apparently, introducing them to my grandmother doesn’t win them over either. “Gran’s off her meds,” I tell Naomi. “Don’t listen to anything she says.”

Gran lifts her chin haughtily, as though affronted. “Have you ever heard a grandson be so cruel to his last living grandparent?” Pearl Lewis loves an audience and putting on a show. She’s also single-handedly ruining my efforts to show Naomi my softer side.

Naomi crosses her arms and leans into her chair. “Mrs. Lewis, you’re preaching to the choir. I know firsthand how devious and cruel this man can be. Why don’t you sit down so we can chat?”

Just when I thought this outing couldn’t get any worse. “Actually, we’re on a tight schedule, and you must have work to do. So we’ll just mosey on over to the counter and get our coffee and tea and find our own seats.” Preferably on the other side of the continent.

Gran, of course, ignores me and slowly lowers herself into the chair opposite Naomi. “Order for me, Avett. Your girlfriend and I need to catch up.”

My girlfriend.

Mortification isn’t a strong enough description for my current state of torment.

In no part of this morning’s faulty plan did I envision Gran and Naomi talking alone, without me there to do damage control. Gran lives to prattle on about the time my head got stuck in the banister and the day she caught me masturbating to a magazine bra advertisement.

Naomi’s mischievous glow turns devilish. She flutters her fingers at me. “Your grandmother’s in good hands. Go on and place your order.”

I am so screwed.

Somehow, I walk to the counter, where I make the grave error of glancing over my shoulder. Naomi’s leaning forward, mouth dropped open in sheer amusement, while Gran’s no doubt diminishing my cool factor by a hundred. I go to yank at my collar, but I’m wearing a loose crewneck T-shirt. This constricting feeling around my throat is doom, not cinched cotton.

I’m going to have to find a new coffee shop to frequent. Maybe a new job in a new town, throw my whole routine into chaos.

“Why do you look like you’re about to puke?” Delilah steps back from the counter and picks up a small garbage can. “Do you need this?”

“What I need is one of those gadgets the Men in Black guys have, the one that erases memories.” Scrub Naomi’s mind of this entire morning.

“Oh my God.” Delilah cranes her neck, peeking toward the cushy loveseats. “Is that your grandmother?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Why would you let them talk?”

“It was an accident.” Because I’m a forever moron. “Now I have to leave the country.”

Delilah smacks the counter and cackles. “I can’t wait to tell Ricky about this.”

I grumble under my breath.

When Delilah has gathered herself enough to take my money and get me a coffee and tea and a scone for Gran, I don’t return to the scene of my humiliation. There’s no point. I find a table on the opposite side of the coffee shop and take a seat, facing the windows and the view of the main street. Watching families stroll is no longer quaint and charming. The soundtrack to Texas Chainsaw Massacre plays in my head. After three sips of my coffee—which barely makes it down my throat—Naomi comes over with my grandmother.

Gran sits in her seat, smiling at me, like she isn’t the Judas of traitors.

Naomi bats her lashes. “Your grandmother is a doll. I’m so glad I got to meet her.”

“Okay…” I drag out the word, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or, in Naomi’s case, the guillotine. “She’s quite colorful when she wants to be,” I say.

“That, she is.” Naomi nods to Gran. “It was a pleasure, Mrs. Lewis.” She turns to leave, but swivels back. “And Avett, if you’re looking for bra advertisements in the future, Feathery Frocks lingerie shop has catalogs.”

Naomi’s so gleeful she practically has fireworks exploding from her eyes. I nearly bite through my tongue, mortified. Of course Gran shared my humiliating masturbating story.

“How about that cribbage game?” Gran says brightly.

I drop my head forward and pinch my nose.

8

While other aspects of my life are less than optimal, I’m finally getting my car back. I’m thrilled to ditch my smoke-smelling rental and drive my Subaru. Strangely, though, when I get to McKenzie’s Garage after work, Naomi’s Mazda is still here, and the front bumper is still crumpled.

“Hey, Malcolm.” I collect my paperwork and keys from Windfall’s best mechanic. “I assume Naomi’s insurance covered everything?”

His left cheek twitches. He opens his mouth and closes it. Then he says, “Yep.”

Okay, then. I gesture to her damaged Mazda. “Is there still an issue with her car?”

He wipes his hands on his coveralls. Twice. “Nope.”

“So, you’re…what? Having parts issues?”

He scratches his nose. “Sure.”

Malcolm is a tall Black man with a heart of gold. He’s straightforward when discussing cars and never fails to regale me with tales of his latest poker wins and his grandson’s baseball wins. This level of one-word evasiveness is odd, but it’s not my car or my business. Naomi’s insurance covered my damage. It will cover hers, although she’ll have to pay a deductible and might have higher premiums going forward. With how she drives, probably not a bad thing.

I walk outside to the parking lot and spot my car. I also spot Naomi, getting out of what I believe is Delilah’s car.

She sees me and falters, but quickly plasters on a smile and saunters over. “It’s weird seeing you somewhere that doesn’t smell like coffee.”

It’s still weird talking to Naomi without planning ways to sabotage her serenity. “I find inhaling gasoline gives me the same jolt.” I don’t make a crack about her driving and why I’m here. Last time I did that, she resumed her role of Cruella De Naomi and froze me out. “Seems like they’re having an issue with your car.”

She glances past me, to where her crunched car sits. “Is that what Malcolm said?”

She sounds nervous, and I don’t know why. She’s not the one who had her most embarrassing moments shared without consent. “Malcolm didn’t say much of anything.”

“Oh, okay.” She touches her hoop earring and rocks on her heels. When she looks back at me, the kindness in her gaze has warmth spreading through my chest. “I know you’re embarrassed by your grandmother, but she’s a hoot.”

Mortifying stories and all, I wouldn’t trade Gran for anything. “Can’t say I’m thrilled she gave you that kind of ammunition against me, but I’m glad you met her.”

Naomi wraps her arms around her waist. “Why would you be glad?”

I’m not entirely sure. Or maybe I am. I’m not ready to admit defeat where Naomi’s concerned. I think about our complicated history daily, good and bad, as well as our more recent banter. My attraction to her is as intense as ever. Even now, I want to press my face into her neck, inhale her coconut scent, drag my hands over her ribs and down her full hips. Find out which places make her shake with pleasure.

I want more from Naomi, physically and emotionally, and getting there begins by sharing pieces of ourselves.

“Gran knows everyone important in my life,” I say, focusing on the good history and banter part of our friendship. “I don’t know what you are in my life, Naomi, but you feel important.”

Her eyes soften and she bites her lip. “You can’t say things like that, Avett.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not fair.”

And she’s not making sense. Although Naomi turned me down, I’m starting to think Delilah was right. Naomi flirts with me. She maybe even likes me, but she’s keeping me at a distance. “The reason you won’t go out with me—is it our history? You can’t separate me from how awful I accidentally made you feel?”

Her next swallow is achingly slow. “It’s complicated.”

Or she’s just being difficult. “Last year, I decided to learn chess and now only lose half the time to my mother. I’m pretty good at understanding complicated things.”

I’m surprised by the longing in her gaze, how my heart speeds in reply. “Why do you have to be so you?” she says softly.

“Is being me bad?”

She glances again toward her car, closes her eyes briefly, then faces me. “I’m going away, Avett.”

“On a vacation?”

“Leaving Windfall. Going traveling for at least a year.”

“Wow.” I jolt, physically and mentally. I picture walking into Sugar and Sips and not seeing Naomi—not suffering through her antics or spending those minutes gazing at the back of her sensual neck or thick mass of hair. “Why?” The question comes out harder than intended.

I’m just…surprised. Off balance, as is my usual state with this woman.

“Because”—she firms her jaw, like she’s readying for a fight—“as my mother says, I’m reckless, short-sighted, and a pleasure seeker.” She blows out a breath and fiddles with the silver ring on her finger. “I quit my job and have a one-way flight to Thailand. So as attracted as I am to you, as much as I think about you when you’re not driving me nuts at Sugar and Sips, I won’t go out with you. There’s no point.”

When I was a kid, after learning Santa Claus was a bold-faced lie, there was one Christmas where I asked my folks for a robotics kit. It was a super cool, remote controlled monster robot. The gift was expensive, and I wasn’t sure they’d go for it. Still, I pined for the kit, dying to have it. Unfortunately, the week before Christmas, I got in a fight with my sister. The altercation resulted in me ruining the castle she’d spent all night building for her history class. My mother’s punishment was decisive and harsh.

She took me to our Christmas tree, grabbed a gift from underneath, and told me to open it. Unsure what was happening, I unwrapped it tentatively at first, ripping a small section of the paper. When I realized it was my coveted robotics kit, I shredded the paper, excited and thrilled, my dread from moments ago vanished.

Then my mother said, “You don’t get to keep the kit, Avett. We’ll be donating this gift, so you learn how it feels to have something you love taken away from you.”

I learned my lesson then, with crushing disappointment that had me sulking for days.

I go through similar stages of elation and deflation now. Naomi wants me—the good part of what she said. She’s attracted to me and thinks about me too. Her admission is the best gift I could get, but the rest of her speech is a gut punch.

She’s leaving.

With a one-way ticket.

For at least a year.

A strange tension tightens my chest.

“Naomi…” I don’t know what to say. My heart’s beating too fast to think. I settle on pragmatics. “Is that why your car’s not fixed? You decided not to bother since you’re leaving?”

She twines her fingers, delaying her reply, acting very not Naomi. “Not exactly,” she says, almost too quietly to hear.

I did hear it, though, and my confusion whirs. “Is your deductible too high to be worth it?” I know she’s a reckless driver, but I didn’t think she was getting in monthly accidents.

“No, Avett. It’s not too high.” She sounds like an impatient school teacher, a tone she’s likely honed at work. “But thanks for assuming I’m careening around the streets like they’re Bumper Car tracks.”

My eyes dart briefly to her smashed car. She purses her lips.

“I just don’t get it. If your deductible isn’t that high, why not pay it? Get your car fixed and sell it.” Before you leave, I don’t add. I don’t want to say the words. Don’t like how thinking them sours my stomach.

Her face shutters, like she might ignore my question and end this conversation, then she sighs. “There’s no deductible, because I don’t have insurance on the car.”

I blink at her. “What?”

“You said you’re good at understanding complicated things.” Her lips quirk. “That wasn’t complicated.”

“Malcolm said your insurance covered my damages.”

She looks at the old garage, which has been fixing cars in Windfall since Malcolm’s grandfather opened it a lifetime ago, fondness crinkling her eyes. “Malcolm’s a good man who lied for me.”

First, she’s leaving. Now she’s evading me with lies. “I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“Because you’re the most stubborn woman in Windfall?” I clamp my molars, wishing I’d tamped the annoyance in my voice.

“That’s rich coming from the most anal man in Windfall.” Her words are harsh, but there’s less rebuke in her tone. She glances past the shop, toward the path that leads to the stream behind it. A few more twists of her ring later, she says, “Do you have time for a short walk? I mean, if you can fit one into your regimented schedule.”

She’s always on my case. Strangely, the jab eases my tension. “My usual after-work activities involve cataloguing how many times I swallow and blink between getting home and cooking dinner. For you, I’ll delay those important studies.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Good to know I’m that important.”

Not so good, considering she’s leaving.

We turn to walk and I place my hand on the small of her back. The move is a reflex, not calculated. Heat spreads up my forearm, making me very aware of every shift my body makes. She seems to slow down slightly, allowing more pressure from my hand against her back. We glance at each other and quickly look away.

Unsure touching is smart, I slip my hand away. “Why all the lies?”

We pass through the sparse forest and meet the stream’s path. She inhales deeply. “I put my car up for sale last month and found a buyer. Figured there’s no point keeping it while I’m away, and Delilah said I could borrow hers if needed until I go. So I terminated my insurance, but the morning the buyer was supposed to meet me and finalize the deal, she bailed. I then made the bad decision to keep driving anyway. The next day I hit you.” She folds her arms over her chest, as though readying for a confrontation.

She may be uneasy about admitting her bad decision, but I’m suddenly more relaxed. I shove my hands into my pockets, soothed by the gurgle of water cascading over rocks. By the easy way Naomi’s finally opening up to me. “I can’t believe you just admitted the accident was your fault.”

She laughs. “You’re a pest.”

“Around you, I am.” A bird above us trills. I roll a loose rock under my shoe. “I’m guessing you didn’t tell me about the insurance because you were embarrassed?”

She nods. “Our history made everything worse. I just worked so hard to save money this year and the accident set me back. It reminded me of my school campaign, working my butt off, only for you to cut me down at the knees, even though hitting you this time was my fault. And with the way we’ve been provoking each other this year, I assumed you’d use my screw up against me, make me feel like an even bigger idiot for driving uninsured. Then there was this massive fight with my mother that escalated everything.”

“Because she was pissed you didn’t have insurance?”

“That, and the fact that I’m going traveling—leaving my job and everything. My choices in general upset her. And when I asked her not to tell anyone I was paying for your car out of pocket, she got really mad. Went on about my carelessness, that lying doesn’t solve anything. We’re just not seeing eye-to-eye on much, which sucks when I’m leaving soon.” The sun’s out and it’s warm, but she rubs her arms as though chilled.

Unable to resist touching her, I move behind her and replace her hands with mine. I rub her arms softly, resting my chin on her head. “If I knew something would actually upset you, I wouldn’t have harped on it. I never wanted you to feel badly. Annoyed, yeah, but not upset.”

Her shoulders lower. “I know that now, but I didn’t know that then. Afterward, I was just embarrassed.”

An honest admission wrapped up with our horrible misunderstanding. “Do you think you can get past our awful history?”

She leans into me and exhales. “I really liked you, Avett. When I thought you said those mean things about me, I was pretty devastated. It took a long while to get my confidence back. But I feel stupid now, for not realizing.”

The only stupid one is me. I wish I could rewind time, kick my teenage self for being so clueless. “Knowing I hurt you like that makes me sick. I hate that anything I did, intentional or not, made you think less of yourself. All I’ve ever seen is a smart, strong, sexy woman. With a vicious streak,” I add and pinch her arm lightly.

She laughs and slips out of my hold. “I wasn’t surprised when I heard you became a vet.” She dips her head down. Bashful Naomi. The newest version of this complex woman. “I knew you’d do something great, even if I had to turn math problems into comic book scenes for you to understand them.”

I mime stabbing myself in the chest. “Way to hurt a guy.”

“It’s the truth.”

“I was distracted by your beauty.”

“And you were sad.” She stares up at the branches crosshatching the sky. “I saw how hard E’s disappearance hit you. It was a shock to all of us, but I can’t imagine how hard you must have taken it.”

Even now, talking about those days has anger tensing my neck. I’ve poured over a million reasons why E and his family might have disappeared: his accountant father stealing from clients and needing to split, one of his brothers secretly being a computer hacker who got tangled in something dangerous, Russian spies whose covers were blown. Without any clues, nothing felt viable, not that it matters. If we haven’t heard from the Bower family by now, we’ll likely never learn why they took off.

And discussing E won’t help set things right with Naomi. “I’m worried you’ll always associate me with feeling badly about yourself.”

Her eyes stay skyward a moment, then she steps closer and fits her thumbs into the belt loops of my jeans. “I’ve always cared what you think about me, Avett. I don’t understand what it is about you or why. But…” She swallows hard. “Even with our past, the last thing I feel with you right now is badly about myself.”

I sure as hell feel a lot around Naomi, strong emotions I’ve never fully understood either. Except one. I want this woman. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone, can’t imagine never tasting her lips, never feeling her skin flush against mine, but I’m all about the future. Plans, spreadsheets, goals. She’s living her life freely, like I did when I was carefree with E, unconcerned with consequences or tomorrows.

She and I are polar opposites now, and we have no future. Not with her one-way plane ticket. Yet when I’m with Naomi, all I can think about is what I want right now.

I brush my fingers along the smooth skin of her cheeks, until I’m cupping her nape and tilting up her chin. “I feel pretty damn good like this—with my hands on you.”

Mischief sparks in her eyes. “I’ve always thought you’d be a good fuck.”

Yeah. Okay. I no longer have to wonder if Naomi is a quiet, tender lover or a vixen between the sheets. This woman was put on the earth to torment me.

Attempting to keep all my blood from rushing south, I tense my limbs but refuse to quit stroking her neck. “Come to my house for dinner this weekend.”

She stiffens. “Did you miss the part where I said I’m leaving in a month?”

“I’m aware of your plans. I also didn’t miss the part where you said you thought I’d be”—I lean down toward her ear—“a good fuck.”

She trembles. I give her ear a lick.

Seriously. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m not thinking and the Avett Lewis I know is always thinking. “You need your stitches out,” I go on, my mouth working ahead of my brain, “and I’d rather do it there than at the clinic, so I can avoid my boss asking questions. If you come over, I’ll finish the work I started on your shin, and we’ll have dinner. I don’t enjoy cooking, so you’ll be annoying me, if it helps.”

Her body grazes mine, a tease of how she’d feel rubbing all over me. “So you’re just inviting me over to play doctor and feed me?”

We can continue this not-saying-what-we-mean game—constant games with Naomi and me—but I don’t want more misunderstandings between us. I lean back so she can see my face clearly. “I’ve always wanted you, Naomi. Even when we were antagonizing each other, I wanted you. From what I’m picking up, you feel the same, and we both know you’re leaving. Whatever this is, it can’t go anywhere deeper than friendship and sex. I’m fine with that if you are.”

I just need something. A fraction of her. It’s been seven years of dislike and suppressed feelings. What was the point of all that antagonism if I’m forever left wondering how she tastes?

She grazes her teeth over her bottom lip. “Just sex?”

“Just sex.”

“How many times?”

I shrug a shoulder, feigning indifference when every part of my body hardens. “It’s up for debate.”

“And you’ll still make me dinner, even though you hate cooking?”

“I wouldn’t welch on a deal.”

She makes a show of mentally weighing the pros and cons, then nods with a flirty wink. “I do love making your life difficult.” And driving me wild. She slides her hands around my waist, settling them on my back. Those nails of hers dig in. “If I never mentioned it, I like my food spicy.”

9

Except for trick number two—prove you can be trusted—I’ve abandoned my Cosmopolitan-inspired spreadsheet. There’s no point winning Naomi over romantically, not with her adventurous life plans and our deal to keep things casual. We’re both attracted to each other. We’re consenting adults who have agreed to test if our chemistry truly sparks. But falling for her, when she’s on the cusp of such a big change, doesn’t make sense. Nowhere in my five-year plan does it say: Have your heart broken.

Still, we have this. One month of the occasional hookup, if that’s where tonight leads. Or maybe one night will be enough. We’ll fuck our brains out and go back to our friendly bickering, aware we have chemistry, no longer enthralled by the mystery of us.

Regardless, I plan to fulfill point two on my Cosmo list. I want Naomi to trust me. Trust is the basis of all friendships, and our journey here has been a haphazard road of potholes and dead ends. Which is why I’m prepping Gran’s insanely good chicken pot pie recipe with chunks of tender chicken, sweet potato and peas and broccoli swimming in a rich gravy. The showstopper is the flaky pie crust.

I don’t actually hate cooking. I lied, allowing Naomi to think she was, once again, making my life difficult. That woman loves watching me squirm. It’s sadistic, the enjoyment she gets out of my discomfort. It’s also kind of cute and I’m a believer in food being the pinnacle of peace offerings. How can you not trust a man willing to make fresh, flaky dough in your honor?

My doorbell rings right on time. I glance around my kitchen and, last minute, decide to trash the wildflowers I placed on the counter. This isn’t a date. We need to keep our intentions clear and avoid all future seven-year misunderstandings.

Flowers trashed, I shake out my arms and stretch my neck. Last time I saw Naomi, she was flirty and all in for whatever tonight brings. She could’ve changed her mind since yesterday. Decided it’s not worth getting involved, even casually. Once again distraught over this woman, I find myself hesitating at the front door, unsure which Naomi will be on the other side. Friend Naomi. Antagonizing Naomi. We Shouldn’t Get Involved Naomi. Or, my personal favorite, I’ve Always Thought You’d be a Good Fuck Naomi.

Tired of my stalling, I open the door and let out an animal grunt.

Whoever this Naomi is, she’s gorgeous.

Her mass of hair cascades around her shoulders, and she’s wearing a tight yellow knit dress I’ve never seen. It dips dangerously low in the front, the sash around her waist accentuating the flare of her hips. Yeah, her body is perfection, but it’s her face that slays me. Seductively arched brows, blushed cheeks, sex-red lips begging to be devoured.

I’m pretty sure this is I’ve Always Thought You’d be a Good Fuck Naomi and I’m suddenly nervous.

“You look sensational,” I say on an exhale.

Her eyes do a sweep of my jeans and old-fashioned bowling shirt. “That is a good look on you.”

She saunters into my house, drops her purse on the entry table, like she’s at ease and comfortable in my space, not second-guessing tonight’s intentions. Her confidence obliterates my nerves. If she’s all in, wasting a second of this night would be criminal. I’m the one who suggested we hook up. I don’t want to live with piles of regrets and what ifs.

She tries to walk past me, but I clasp her waist and pull her close. Her gasp is all the encouragement I need. I crowd her against the wall, get up in her space. “How do you always smell so fantastic?” Like I’ve been swept away to a tropical paradise.

She slides her hands over my shoulders. “How do you always look so fuckable?”

God, I love her filthy mouth. I nose her neck and nip at her skin. “When you wear your hair in a bun, I lose my mind. Your neck does things to me.” As do her delicate collarbones, the tender spot by her ear. I keep exploring her glorious skin, whispering as I go. “Tell me to stop, Naomi. Tell me to take this slower. We can go into my kitchen, where I’ll remove those stitches and feed you a home-cooked meal.” But I trail my tongue along her ear.

She inhales sharply and palms my ass. “The only thing I want in my mouth is your cock.”

Jesus. Heat rushes straight to my dick, a hot pulse that has me crushing my mouth to hers. She opens up with ease, letting me in, giving back as hard as I’m taking.

Abruptly, she pulls away and drops to her knees. Her hands are on my fly before my brain catches up with what’s happening. Naomi. Mouth. My dick.

My villainous vixen is seducing me.

Her hands don’t hesitate, pulling my cock free, her lips and tongue tracing the head. I buck. See stars. Those sex-red lips stretch wide and take me in, inch by body-buzzing inch, sucking me so deep a ragged groan rips from my chest. It’s not just the feel of her, how she teases me by pulling away then swallowing me to the root, playing with my balls in between. It’s the sounds she’s making, like she’s loving this. Like she can’t take me deep enough, work me over hard enough.

I’m utterly enthralled, watching my rigid flesh sinking into her luscious mouth, but I weave my fingers into her thick hair and press my hands to her head. “If you think I’m coming now without being inside you, you don’t know me very well.”

She licks her glistening lips. “I don’t know you well at all, do I?”

Her words have me hitting pause. I’m insanely turned on and desperate to get my mouth on her, but her question reignites my confusing nerves. “Do you want to know me?”

It’s a non-casual question. It’s the absolute worst thing to ask. Clearly, my brain is malfunctioning. I mean, my thighs are on fire, my jeans are bunched at my knees. I’m aching to dive so deep into Naomi we shake the house, but my tenacious mind catches on my bad idea question, spinning it in reverse, thinking about all the ways I want to know her. I want to watch Naomi eat my food and enjoy my culinary efforts. I want to pull those flowers out of the trash and put them on the counter. I want to find out why she’s going traveling and if she doesn’t love teaching like I thought and if her fight with her mother over her choices is still lingering.

The awareness of all I want overwhelms me, but Naomi wraps her hand around me again, giving my aching cock a solid pump. “I want to know what you want.”

Heat catches fire at the base of my spine, hot enough to burn the periphery of my spinning thoughts. I force my focus on the moment. Naomi. Us. Her hands rubbing all over my throbbing shaft while she waits for me to tell her what I want.

I grip her shoulders and pull her up. “I want that sweet pussy of yours contracting around me.” She’s not the only one who can sling dirty words.

Her grin is lecherous. “Then you better get to work.”

I do. I ditch my clothes, loving how she watches my every move, her eyes darkened and lips parted. When my shirt meets my jeans and briefs on the floor, she lets out a needy moan and traces the lines of my abs. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this body from me for years.”

Fingers fumbling in my rush, I undo the sash at her waist and find the zipper at her back. “I can’t believe I’m about to have my mouth on your tits.” I make quick work of her dress, letting it slip to the floor. When I look at her, I freeze. “Naomi.”

She’s suddenly bashful, her head tipped down, her hair covering her face the way it used to in school. Old insecurities flaring back to life? Those crude words I spoke about a celebrity still infecting her mind? I trail the backs of my fingers down her cheek and neck, then farther—across the outer swells of her breasts, showcased in white lace. “You’re beautiful now and you were beautiful in high school. You’ve always been beautiful to me.”

She steps forward, her liquid gaze holding mine. “Thank you,” she whispers.

We stand there, me buck naked, her in mouth-watering lingerie, our eyes locked as her fingers graze my ribs. I trail mine along the flare of her hips, enthralled by what’s happening and the feel of my jutting cock trapped against her stomach.

“Avett?”

“Yeah?” God, I sound as desperate as I feel.

“Bedroom,” is all she says.

Right. Bedroom. The casual sex that will casually happen between us and not be more than casual. I hoist her into my arms and head for the stairs, trying not to trip as she trails wet kisses along my neck and jaw. There’s no controlling the gravelly sounds I make. Grunts and groans I’ve never uttered.

When I reach my bedroom, I crowd her on my bed, laying my body over all her silky skin. “You”—I kiss her jaw and ear—“torment me. Even now.” I kiss my way down her neck, pulling the cup of her bra down, revealing a peek of what I need. “These breasts were made to undo me.”

I roll my tongue over one pert nipple, squeezing her full breasts, lost in the feel of her. It’s not enough. I move to unlatch her bra, but she stops me. Her face sobers. “Are you sure you want to take it off? I know bras get you hot.”

My grandmother catching me jacking off to a lingerie magazine will forever be the bane of my existence.

Naomi snorts.

Growling, I unhook her bra and fling it against the wall, getting my face in her cleavage, covering myself in Naomi.

She arches her back and runs her hands through my hair. “So it’s not just the bras. You’re a breast man.”

I think I’m a Naomi man, but these aren’t words we’re allowed to utter. Casual sex, casually happening. I palm her hips, then fit my fingers under the sides of her lace underwear, but I don’t drag them down. I want her consent. Her admission, verbally or physically, that she wants me as badly as I want her.

Lip trapped between her teeth, she lifts her hips.

My heart kicks against my ribs.

I peel the scrap of fabric from her body, but my hands betray me by trembling. Casual sex, casually happening. I trace the curve of her belly, can’t believe how soft she is, this hard woman who lives to goad me. My lips find her belly button, traveling down to the curls at the apex of her thighs. She gasps, and another growl escapes me. I can barely handle how heavy my dick feels, thick and hot with wanting her, my first taste and smell of Naomi making me lightheaded. Musky woman and sex. I press the flat of my tongue against all that wet heat, flatten my hips into the mattress, grinding to get some relief while using my tongue to break her.

I want Naomi in pieces. Shattered because of me.

She writhes and grabs at my head. “Fuck, Avett. I can’t…I’m so close.”

I’m about to lose my mind. I lick and suck and take her over the edge, getting off on her shouts as she trembles against my face.

She goes boneless and sighs. “I can’t believe you hid those skills from me all these years.”

Lifting to my knees, I wipe my mouth, loving the lingering smell of her, knowing it’s all over my trimmed beard. “I didn’t hide my body or my skills, Naomi. We didn’t hide from each other at all. I fought with you because I was constantly fighting my feelings for you.”

“I’m going away,” she whispers, her eyes turning glassy.

“I know.” The truth of sex with Naomi is slowly sinking in. As casual as I want this to be, it feels like we’re on the cusp of more. The last place we should be. I need to rein us in. Keep things light. Grinning, I say, “This is my going away present to you.”

She smiles and I kiss her breathless.

I leave her briefly, grab a condom from my dresser and roll it on, soaking in the way she’s watching me again, her eyes riveted as I return to the bed and notch my thighs between hers. I cage her between my arms, kiss her while I line us up and find her entrance, all other thoughts eclipsed by this moment. Naomi James. About to be mine. Physically.

Her knees press into my sides, her hands finding the grooves of my back. I swipe my tongue against hers as adrenaline sharpens my vision.

I press forward. We both gasp. Her nails make purchase.

I push deeper, releasing a harsh grunt when we’re flush. “Shit, you’re…” Perfect.

“Don’t stop.” She rolls her hips, egging me on.

We move, thrusting together, her slick pussy as tormenting as I imagined. Tight. Hot. Wet. Clenching me as I drag in and out, sweat gathering, my heart pounding harder than on my runs. And the worst words hover on my lips. Don’t go.

We’re having sex, wrapped up in each other, rocking and groping and kissing and my only thought is…this can’t end. Not now. Not in a month. But we don’t get everything we want in life. So I banish the wish, let the heat gripping my quads burn me up. We get rougher, harder slaps of our hips taking us higher and higher until she cries out and her inner walls squeeze my length, ripping apart my sense, sending spasms barrelling through me.

“Jesus,” is all I manage afterward.

My fists are planted on either side of Naomi’s head. Her hands are on my hips, her hair wild on my sheets, her cheeks and neck red from exertion. When she opens her eyes, those two words slam back. Don’t go. She’s looking at me with so much unbridled emotion I’m sure she’s thinking the same thing.

But she pulls my head down, gives me a deep kiss, and murmurs, “What smells so damn good in this house?”

10

I’m pretty fastidious about my home. I know, shocker. A guy who plans his life five years ahead, limits his sugar intake, and sets two alarm clocks is “finicky.” When it comes to Naomi, my rules tend to bend. We’re back on my bed, sitting cross-legged in front of each other. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts, while I’m in my briefs, both of us with bowls of chicken pot pie on our laps, when I have a firm rule to never eat in bed.

She takes another bite and moans. “You are such a liar. No man who hates cooking makes food this good.”

I chew a mouthful of chicken and flaky pastry, smiling as I swallow. “You only let me do things for you if you think I’ll suffer.”

She licks her spoon and my dick takes notice. Watching her mouth is my new favorite porn.

“I feel kind of badly,” she says once the rest is polished off. “About how much I’ve pushed your buttons over the years.”

I set our bowls aside and bring her to lie down with me, face to face. “I did sabotage your campaign.”

“I’d love to have seen footage of it. Bet you were sweating and panicked the whole time.”

I chuckle. “It wasn’t pretty.” And I don’t want to talk about this again. We’ve apologized, with our words and our bodies. I want to focus on the woman before me now, how sexy she looks in my too-big gray shirt. I can’t resist learning what makes her tick. “Tell me about this trip. What inspired it?”

Her eyes take on a faraway look. “I want to scare myself.”

“You could just do my taxes.”

Her husky laugh slays me. “Or listen to that wheezing sound your nose makes.”

I clutch my chest. “Woman. Why so harsh?”

“You’re such an easy target.”

With her, I am. “Scaring yourself,” I say, nudging us back on track. “Do tell.”

She stretches out more fully on my bed. “It’s just, we’re so young and it’s so easy to get lost in everyone’s expectations of us. To get stuck on the treadmill that’s supposed to be our lives—work, marry, work, have kids, work, while escaping on short vacations in between to remind us there’s a bigger world out there. I mean, I want those things. I just don’t want them now. I want to do something wild. Scare myself and toss my luck into the wind. Have new experiences, eat new foods, meet new people. It’s not how my parents have lived. It’s not how anyone I know lives, but I started reading travel blogs and found myself feeling envious. I kept thinking…why not me? Why can’t I do this?”

“So…you just gave your notice and quit?” The thought makes me queasy. I’m on that treadmill of life she hates, my future mapped out, and I don’t want to hop off. It’s safe on here. Except, somehow, Naomi has altered the speed and incline and everything’s getting harder.

She rolls onto her back, gazing at the ceiling. “I didn’t just quit. I struggled with the idea of leaving, knew my mother would lose her mind, and I have a great job. The idea of quitting, of not knowing if there will be a place for me if I come back, was hard to get over. In the end, the need to have an adventure trumped that unknown. I’ve been saving for over a year but chose to only plan my first month away. I’m going to this amazing area of Thailand, with ruins and hiking and cooking classes in a town with a gorgeous market. Then…I don’t know. If my funds get low, there are places I can teach English. I’ll see where the wind takes me.”

I close my eyes, picture myself traipsing around a foreign country, no real plans, no limitations. Anxiety speeds my heart. Then I picture Naomi beside me in a market, marveling over exotic fruits and vegetables, the two of us hiking to visit temples, sleeping tucked together in a hut. My anxiety morphs, turning to excitement, until reality blows the images to smithereens. If I took off like her, I’d lose my job. Wouldn’t be able to pay my parents back their college loans for ages. The possibility of opening my own clinic within five years would be toast. My folks might sell this house before I can afford to buy it from them.

Edginess has me frowning. I clench and flex my fingers.

“I’m happy for you,” I say, rough. I am, but I hate that I’ll lose her so soon after learning how amazing she is. “Sounds like you’re doing exactly what you want.”

She rolls her head to the side, casting a curious look at me. “What about you? Are you doing what you want?”

I give her breast a greedy caress. “I certainly just did what I wanted.”

She releases a delectable moan and slides toward me. “As did I, but you know what I mean.”

I do. She’s picking at my regimented nature. “I love my job. I love this house. I love my friends and this town. So, yeah, I guess I’m doing what I want.”

“I mean deeply.” She touches my chest. “In here. Are you living your best life?”

Her question catches me off guard, and I’m not sure how to reply. I do love my job. Animals have this happy innocence that lights me up. Helping them when they’re in pain is a gift, and the problem-solving aspect of being a doctor really gets me going, even though there are tough times too. Whenever I put a pet down, from old age, illness, or an accident, it hits hard. Sits on my chest like a boulder, but I’m not one of those people who’s always groaning about their work.

I do, however, still miss E. Occasionally, I find myself thinking back to my more carefree days. Younger years when I used to flaunt rules, pull pranks with him, regardless of the consequences—steal alcohol from my folks, ditch classes to hangout in the quarry or go cliff jumping at Bear Lake. Live like there was no tomorrow. I remember how alive I felt back then. The rush of adventure and comradery of messing around with a friend were the best moments of my youth.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped living in the moment. After E left, the idea of veering off the well-worn path of predictability made me sweat.

Instead of answering Naomi, I kiss her. There’s too much here to unpack, and I want her. More of her. Now. Whatever I can have while she’s still in town.

She melts at my touch, opens for me, the two of us coming together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like our bodies know their counterparts and we have all the time in the world.

Afterward, in my living room, I remove Naomi’s stitches and rebandage the healing gash. She no longer flinches when I touch her. Instead, she leans forward and bites my ear.

I hum my pleasure. “You’re dangerous.”

“According to your grandmother, you were a dangerous criminal growing up, stealing her tractor, shoving your head through the banister while pretending to be in jail.”

I’ll never take Gran on another outing again. “I bet if I had coffee with your family, they’d regale me with tales of your embarrassing moments.”

“Except I’m not dumb enough to let that happen.”

“Not my finest moment, but now you owe me. Tell me one thing you did as a kid that still mortifies you.”

She waggles her eyebrows. “Besides having a crush on you?”

“You wound me, woman.” I feign heart pain, then get up and collect a bottle of red wine and wineglasses from the kitchen. When I’m back, Naomi is lounging, legs stretched out on my couch, her hair shoved into a messy bun. I pour us both glasses, then sit beside her and gather her legs on my lap. “I’ve given you food and wine and three orgasms. It’s time for compensation.”

Sipping her wine, she rolls her eyes. “Fine. But only because my story’s not as horrible as your bra-masturbation incident.”

“You’re stalling.” And going out of her way to rattle me.

She sighs dramatically. “I was, like, thirteen or fourteen, and I overheard some guys at school talking about pearl necklaces. Being the clueless kid I was, I announced to my parents that I wanted a boyfriend so I could get a pearl necklace.”

“As in…” I mime jacking off toward her neck.

She kicks at my lap with her heel. “Can you blame me? I had no experience back then. Sexual terminology like ‘pearl necklace’ was nowhere on my radar. Needless to say, my father sputtered up his water, and my mother proceeded to have a horrifyingly awkward conversation with me.”

I laugh, picturing young Naomi, with her studious expression and quiet disposition, learning about the depraved desires of men. “Must have been eye opening.”

“To say the least.”

I stroke her ankle, loving how she relaxes deeper into my couch. “I guess being an only child, you didn’t have a sibling to educate you. Or pick on you,” I add.

“Was your sister a bully growing up?”

“Not in an aggressive way. She still likes to tell people about the time we watched Poltergeist and I refused to watch TV for months afterward, convinced I’d get sucked into the TV like the characters in that movie.”

She laughs while smiling at me. “Seems your family has a thing for sharing embarrassing stories about you.”

“The sad truth,” I grumble.

“It’s nice,” she says wistfully. “I had a great childhood. My mom was tough but fair, and my dad was always young at heart, quick to play games with me, even letting me dress him up when I was little. But I envied my friends with siblings. I sometimes felt lonely. I think that’s why I was so quiet at school too.”

“Because you weren’t used to hanging out with other kids?”

She takes a deeper sip of wine and shrugs a shoulder. “Being with adults was easier for me. Interacting with kids my age almost felt like walking through a minefield.”

“I think I liked that about you.”

She digs her toe into my hip. “You liked that I was an awkward mess as a teen?”

I tickle her foot until she yanks it away, mock glaring at me. “You were the only one willing to talk to me about E after he left. Everyone else was skittish, like my gloom was catchy. All they cared about was obsessing over their crushes and the latest fashion. You were more mature, seemed to understand my pain and weren’t afraid to talk about it.”

“That’s not true.”

I frown at her. “I may not remember parts of high school clearly, but I’ll never forget you squeezing my shoulder in the lunchroom, telling me how sorry you were about E’s disappearance.”

“Sure, but talking to you wasn’t selfless maturity.” She slides her toe enticingly up the length of my upper thigh. “I was just as obsessed as the other kids about my crushes, and my crush was on you.”

My heart hiccups. Color blooms on her cheeks. Her old feelings aren’t news any longer, but the intensity on her face shines a different light on our past. If I hadn’t been terrified of her rejection back then, I’d have asked her out. She’d actually have said yes, and I’d never have sabotaged her campaign. She wouldn’t have spent seven years hating me. A domino of events that might have changed the course of our lives.

Not that it matters now. There’s no repeating history, and there’s no real future for us.

“I’m sorry your mom’s not taking your trip well.” Her trip is the last thing I want to talk about, but putting it out there is a reminder. We’re just casual. Whatever we’re doing has a deadline.

She drops her gaze, traces the stem of her glass. “I hate letting her down and being an only child makes it worse. Like there’s this pressure to be perfect because they only have me. I don’t have a brother or sister to distract them while I mess up.”

“She’s only concerned because she cares.”

“And your grandmother only teases you because she loves you so much.”

I huff as I sip my wine. “I should’ve been a worse grandson.”

She laughs softly. “How did you two end up so close?”

“I’m a glutton for punishment,” I say, keeping things light. But Naomi squints at me, not speaking, just waiting. She wants the real me. “When I was at my worst after E left, Gran forced me to take her for walks outside, made me sit and play cribbage with her.”

A smile gentles her face. “She’s a good woman.”

“The best…when she’s not blasting my worst moments around town.” Or nagging me to loosen up the controls on my ordered life.

Preferring to avoid that topic, I detour to Windfall’s Spring Fair next week and how fun it is. We reminisce about the terrible days Delilah went through after E disappeared and gossip about how annoying it is that Ricky and Aaron haven’t gone on a date yet. We drink wine and talk and open up to each other, while I try not to think about our limited future.

11

While I enjoy Windfall’s Scarecrow Scavenger Hunt and the Summer Art Festival, the town’s Spring Fair is my favorite Windfall event. The flower arrangement contest always makes Gran smile, and the tractor race is epic and outlandish, with groups turning tractors into themed floats, which they race across the field to the shouts and laughter of townsfolk.

As usual, a traveling amusement park is set up on the fairgrounds, while country music blasts from the rides. Bales of hay are stacked high, guiding shrieking kids through the various mazes. Horse jumping draws crowds to the arena, while vendors sell candy apples and candy floss and every kind of homemade fudge you can imagine. During the year, I limit my sugar intake and don’t spend money on frivolous things. Spring Fair is my cheat day.

Ricky’s with Delilah and her best friend, Maggie Edelstein. Maggie has red hair, pale freckled skin, and is blunter than a hammer. They wave when they see me and beckon me toward the churros stand. I don’t need the encouragement. Not with the sweet smells of fried dough and cinnamon sugar.

Delilah seems a bit down and distracted, her attention on the ground.

Ricky smirks at my shirt. “Looks like you’ve already visited the caramel popcorn booth.”

Maggie follows his gaze and snorts. “Looks more like you need a lesson in hand-eye coordination.”

I glance down, and yep. A piece of caramel popcorn is stuck to my T-shirt. I pick it off and toss it into the nearby trash. “Gran insisted on a treat while we watched the flower arrangement contest, along with a bag of fresh-made licorice.” I rub my stomach, unsure if I can add churros to the mix just yet.

Ricky shakes his head. “Honestly, if you weren’t so staunch about your diet, you wouldn’t need to OD on sugar at events like this.”

“It’s easier cutting it out than having it in doses.”

“Did Mr. Bajwa win the flower contest?” Maggie asks as she takes a bite of her churro. Her eyes roll back. “Fuck, these are good.”

“They smell amazing,” Delilah says, no enthusiasm in her tone. She watches a few kids run by and frowns.

“They taste even better,” Maggie replies cheekily…and shoves a churro in Delilah’s face, covering her in cinnamon sugar.

I wait for Delilah to crack up like she would’ve when we were younger, but she just smiles quietly while dusting off the mess, and I swallow a sigh.

While Delilah runs a great business and is usually upbeat and positive, I think festivals remind her too much of E—the two of them inseparable as they’d cheer at the horse jumping and feed each other pieces of fudge. Maggie tries to make her laugh with antics like shoving food in her face, but there’s no denying the obvious: when Delilah lost E without explanation, she lost a piece of herself.

“Back to the flower arrangement contest,” I say, trying to keep the conversation flowing, “Mr. Bajwa didn’t win this year.”

Maggie gasps. “He won the last two years.”

“You didn’t hear?” Naomi says, appearing unexpectedly beside me.

One look at her and I have to bite back a groan. She looks edible in frayed jean shorts and a purple tank top, the straps of her pink bra slipping out. I’m dying to lean in, drop a kiss to her shoulder, run my nose up her neck, but we’ve been keeping our involvement on the down low. While we’ve spent every night together the past week, we decided to keep our boundaries in check. There’s been plenty of sex—like, lots and lots of really fucking amazing sex—but we don’t do sleepovers. And aside from our continued banter at Sugar and Sips, we don’t hang out in public. I’m not sure what to expect from her here.

“What didn’t we hear?” Ricky asks while finishing his churro and licking his fingers.

Naomi steps close enough that our arms brush. “Mr. Bajwa lost his title to a thirteen-year-old.” A chorus of nos ring out—our gossip hungry group eager for more. “Turns out,” Naomi goes on, “Jada Sims has been training her daughter, Tamisha, nonstop for, like, six months. The kid built a six-foot arrangement in record time.”

Ricky snickers. “I’d have killed to see Mr. Bajwa’s face.”

“I feel so badly for him,” Delilah says, seeming more interested in our gossip. “He works so hard at his bouquets.”

The back of Naomi’s hand grazes mine. The smallest contact, but I tune out our friends as they debate the minutiae of flower arrangements. The bustling festival fades too, all except her: Naomi’s warm breath hitting my clavicle, her fingers tangling with mine, our bodies slowly facing each other.

“Is this allowed?” I ask quietly.

“Is what allowed?”

I drag my thumb over her palm, lacing our fingers more firmly. “Holding hands in public feels like a couple thing. We’re not exactly a couple.”

She studies our held hands, then her dark eyes lift, shimmering with something I can’t decipher. “Friends hold hands too. We are friends, right?”

I honestly have no clue what we are. I also don’t really care to analyze it. Not when the end results won’t change. “I believe we are. I bet friends also ride Tilt-A-Whirls together.”

Her face lights up. “Pretty sure they drive bumper cars too.”

“And ride the Ferris wheel.”

“And play the Frog Toss together.”

I curl my lip. “As long as no one subbed real frogs for the bean bag ones this year. I won’t abide cruelty to animals.”

She cringes. “I forgot about that disaster.”

Frogs hopping willy nilly. Townsfolk darting around to avoid stepping on the little suckers. As chaotic as that debacle was, my chest feels even more turbulent now. Flirting with Naomi like we’re a normal couple wasn’t part of my plan for today. But this is my cheat day: eat all the sugar I want, spend frivolous money on silly games. Have a date with my casual hookup, who should stay in the casual zone.

“Since the fair is a special day,” I say, “maybe we can be more than just friends for the afternoon. You know, to better experience festivities.”

She tilts her head. “Like, have an actual date?”

“Just as a one-time thing,” I say quickly. “Since you’re leaving soon.” And there’s no point getting attached to each other.

She nods thoughtfully, the corner of her lips quirked. “It’s not a bad idea. I mean, it’s a known fact that fairs are more fun on dates.”

“Exactly,” I say, feeling a tad too eager. “Not taking advantage of the opportunity would be criminal.”

“It’s settled then.” She squeezes my hand tighter, almost like she hates the idea of letting go. “One fair date, to optimize the day.”

Greedy to get Naomi alone, I nod to our friends. “Catch you all later.”

Ricky scrutinizes our held hands and raises a questioning eyebrow. I give him my back and lead Naomi away. There will be an interrogation later, but I don’t have time or patience for his meddling now. I’m high on the sugar I’ve eaten. Naomi’s hand is soft and small tucked into mine, her beachy scents stronger than the sweetness filling the air.

Cheat Day has taken on a life of its own.

We hit the Tilt-A-Whirl first and clamber into the two-person cart. There’s enough room to sit with space between us, but this is Cheat Day. I wrap my arm around Naomi, run my nose through her hair…because this is a one-time date and she smells so good and she’s soft and warm and pressed all against me, this former enemy of mine.

She sighs, then stiffens. “Don’t you get motion sickness?”

She’s likely thinking of the school trip where I had to shove my head out the bus window and painted the side with the burger I’d eaten. That fun event was courtesy of food poisoning, not motion sickness. A fact I could share with Naomi, but what’s the fun in that? “I’ll only puke if we spin more than a few times.”

“Um.” She tries to stand and get out, but I manhandle her into my arms. “Avett, if you get sick anywhere near me, I’ll get sick too. Then I’ll murder you.”

“But it’s not a sure thing. I might be fine.”

“Yeah, no.” She squirms in my grip. “Let me out of here.”

I lock her against my chest, laughing into her ear. “Promise I’ll aim the other way.” I debate dragging out this game, pretending I’m ill while we’re spinning, but my nose is in her hair again, and we’re pressed so damn close, on this one-time date of ours. I bite down on her ear because I can’t resist. “I don’t get motion sickness. I just like messing with you.”

Her breath catches. She slides her hand over the growing bulge in my shorts, the seductive move hidden by the cart walls. “I guess that’s our thing, isn’t it?”

I’m not sure if she’s referring to us flirting playfully or us enjoying tormenting each other. Likely both these days. “Being friends with you is an adventure.”

Unfortunately, not enough of one to keep her in Windfall.

The ride kicks on, spinning us in a slow circle. Naomi’s hand moves to my thigh. I latch my arm around her waist. The faster we go, the more we pitch into each other, grinning with the sudden moves. The fair spirals around us. Her laughter twirls around me, an infectious sound that grows the faster we spin. By the time we’re done, I’m dizzy from the ride and her proximity.

“Frog toss?” she says, beaming up at me.

“Try to keep me away.”

Hands linked, we walk to the game. For a fee, we get to toss bean bag frogs at narrow-lipped jars, with the hopes of winning a stuffed animal. It’s near impossible to win, but my pragmatic mind is on vacation today.

Naomi stands beside me, amusement in her dark eyes. As I wind up my arm to toss the frog, she says, “I bought a new pink thong.”

My body flexes and my arm jerks, visions of pink lace and Naomi fogging up my brain. The frog goes flying and doesn’t land anywhere near the jars.

She cackles. “You toss frogs as well as you play basketball.”

A month ago, that dig would have infuriated me. Today, I smile. “Someone distracted me.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to. I just mentioned that I went shopping.”

“Is that how this is going down?” I lean on the counter separating us from the jars. “Because if we’re trying to make each other miss, you won’t win this game.”

She takes a frog from the attendant and readies her stance. “I played league baseball after high school. You can’t rattle me.” Focus dead ahead, she adjusts her stance and narrows her eyes on target.

The second she pulls her arm back, ready for launch, I lean in and whisper, “I can’t wait to fuck you later.”

Her arm lurches and the frog launches pitifully, landing on the grass. She rounds on me. “Are you afraid to lose to a woman? Is that why you sabotaged me?”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” I say, stealing her line. “Maybe I just like flustering you.”

Instead of upping her indignation, she lines our bodies up and brings her lips to my ear. “Maybe I like it when you fluster me.”

With a saucy wink, she steps back and we resume our game, heckling each other as we take turns. Eventually we move to the Ferris wheel, where we cuddle and talk as our heads flirt with the clouds. At the bumper cars, I tease her driving skills and get rammed for my efforts. We share a stick of candy floss and cheer at the tractor races, cracking up when we see the one decorated as a giant hotdog, which looks more like a giant penis.

Townsfolk cast curious glances our way, likely wondering when we switched from hating each other to hanging out. I don’t like the scrutiny, or the inevitable gossip that will follow, but I don’t dwell. Cheat Day doesn’t include needless worrying.

12

I’ve never loved coffee so much. Or maybe it’s knowing I’ll see my favorite former enemy, the two of us pretending like I didn’t fuck her six ways to Sunday the night before. Since the fair, we’ve maintained our no-sleepover rule, and have had no further public dates, but our nightly escapes haven’t lessened.

Every evening the past two weeks, when I kiss Naomi goodbye at her door or at mine, I go to sleep reliving the tight pull of her body around my dick, the sharp slap of our hips, the kissing that goes on and on, as well as the laughter and late-night talks after our sweaty sessions between the sheets. There are a lot of benefits to our arrangement. Including the fact that she still torments me every morning, but in different ways.

For a change, she’s behind me in line. This has become our new normal. We don’t flaunt our friends-with-benefits status publicly like we did on our cheat day, but she likes the access she has to my neck and ears. Private places she can access. She’s so close, hovering at my back, that my skin sizzles.

“You have a phenomenal ass, Lewis.”

My ass flexes in reply to her compliment, a sharp contraction beyond my control, along with the thickening of my cock. This woman’s voice is pure eroticism. “Must be all my recent calisthenics. I’ve been working out a lot lately.” With her in my bed. On my couch. On the hallway floor and kitchen counter. A lot of working out the past weeks.

She hums contentedly. “I’ve heard the weather might turn tonight. Things are already getting really wet.”

I grunt. It’s not fair. She excels at pushing my buttons, whether driving me nuts or turning me on. Naomi James forever has the upper hand.

She inches close enough that the softness of her breasts presses to my rigid back. “Avett,” she whispers.

A twinge grips my sternum at her breathy voice. I’ve heard her utter my name plenty lately, in shouts of passion and teasing quips. I’m not sure what’s different this time, but the twinge spreads, traveling upward until my throat feels thick. “Yeah?”

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but…”

She’s staying. She’s not going adventuring. The sudden wish is so intense, so forceful, I can barely breathe.

“The line moved,” she finishes.

I blink, floored I didn’t notice. I, Avett Lewis, regimented routine lover and hater of poor line etiquette, just let the gap widen without so much as a leg twitch.

Immediately, I close the space. Naomi laughs. I eject my ridiculous fantasy of her staying. Sure, I’ll miss these benefits. We’ve become incredibly close in a short time, but life goes on. When she leaves, I won’t do ghastly things like let a gap widen when waiting in line. This past weekend, I slept in for fuck’s sake. I was so tired from our exertions that I woke up at seven. Not six. I turned off both alarms and sunk deeper into my sheets and spent the rest of the day playing catch up.

Not only will her departure be okay, it will be good.

I’ll get my life and routine back.

We order and gather our coffees. She winks at me with a teasing, “Looking forward to the wet weather tonight,” and saunters out the door, fully aware of how her sensual hips knock the sense out of my head.

Ricky strides in as she leaves and walks toward me. “You two are both smiling like you’ve been given the lowdown on a horse race and are about to rake in millions.”

“That’s a very specific analogy.”

“I also heard Mrs. Jackson was ahead of you in line and you didn’t close the gap.”

Ladies and gentlemen, the legendary Windfall gossip mill.

He presses the back of his hand to my forehead. “You feeling okay?”

I smack his hand away. “I’m fantastic.”

I’ll be even better in a week when Naomi’s gone and I’ll no longer invite town scrutiny. Our cheat day is over. I prefer flying under the radar to inviting gossip. But that thickness returns to my throat, the uncomfortable pinching in my sternum lingering.

Ricky runs his tongue over his teeth, assessing me so closely, I glance away. “You’re in love with her.”

I rear back. “What the fuck, man?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Dead wrong.” I may like Naomi a hell of a lot, but love is an entirely different beast. “We have an arrangement. That’s it. When she’s gone, we’re done.”

“Wow. Dude. I didn’t realize someone as pragmatic as you could live in this level of denial.”

My lip curls. “I didn’t realize you have a doctorate in annoying me.”

He waves me off. “I’ve known you for years, my friend. Love is love and you’re glowing with it.”

Love may be love, but Naomi and I only recently became friends with benefits. Yes, I love spending time with her. Yes, the sex is off the charts. Yes, if she was staying in town, I wouldn’t hesitate to push for more, but we walked into this with all our cards on the table. I have at least enough control to protect my heart for when she’s gone. “You’ve been watching telenovelas again, haven’t you?”

“And you’re gonna let her leave without telling her.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I say, dropping my voice to an angry hiss. “Why can’t it just be what it is?”

“Because it’s you and Naomi. Nothing’s ever what it is.”

We stare at each other, both glaring, shoulders hiked. I’m not used to fighting with Ricky. I’m not used to sleeping in on weekends and letting lineups widen into chaos and having the town talk about me. I’m not used to feeling hot and cold at once, unsettled and happy.

Ricky’s attention jerks away from me. I follow his line of sight—to Aaron, of course. I have no doubt they’ll play their usual game of charades, acting out their secret interest without either of them making a move, but Ricky says, “Guess I need to lead by example.”

He marches past me, walks right up to Aaron, and says something to him I can’t hear. The answering smile that breaks over Aaron’s face could power Main Street’s lampposts. Ricky glances at his feet, then back up at his crush.

Watching them start whatever it is they’re starting has my gut hollowing. The hot and cold sensations messing up my internal temperature intensify. As does my irritation. Ricky finally talking to Aaron has nothing to do with my and Naomi’s relationship. Ricky and Aaron barely know each other, and Aaron isn’t taking off traveling. The only example Ricky’s setting is that single guys can meet nice people in coffee shops.

13

Naomi’s wearing my favorite outfit: nothing. She did a striptease for me, swaying her hips and touching herself, and I’m on the verge of coming without so much as a stroke. Unable to handle more foreplay, I drag her onto my bed, roll on a condom in record time, and thrust into her with one fast push.

She gasps. “God, you’re big.”

Cocky grin in place, I lift her hips, setting her at an angle that gets us both off. “Stop with the compliments. I might think you like me.”

She blinks, an unfamiliar shine glossing her eyes. Sad? Happy? Worried? It disappears quickly. “Shut up and fuck me.”

Music to my ears. We don’t speak again, but I slow my movements, getting off on the teasing drags and shorter strokes. I devour her lips and bite her neck, lost to our blazing passion. But as I circle my hips and watch Naomi, captivated and addicted to her every shudder and gasp, I realize I’m trying to slow us down. Slow time. I want to memorize every noise and move she makes. I need to bank these memories for later, for when she’s gone and I’m alone.

No. Not alone.

I move faster, pump harder.

I have friends. It’s enough. I don’t need her to be fulfilled and happy.

She comes first, clinging to me and contracting around me so intensely I’m not far behind, pleasure snapping through me in rushing waves. We clean up after, nearing the part where she gets dressed to leave—our mutual understanding, keeping things casual between us.

Instead of gathering her clothes, she puts her hand tentatively on my arm. “Can I stay the night?”

My pulse pounds at her request. A feverish jump that has me wanting to kiss her again. And escape this room. I should suggest it’s not for the best. We should keep our status quo status quo, but I say, “Of course.”

We slide into bed together and I gather Naomi against my chest. We don’t talk quietly or joke the way we often do. I feel her every breath, the deep sigh as she sinks heavier against me. She feathers her fingers over my chest hair, and for some messed up reason my eyes sting.

Eventually, I drift off to sleep, but it’s fitful. I wake suddenly, sweaty and panicked. I don’t remember my dreams, but unease has my skin feverish, my heart palpitating. It’s still dark and Naomi’s facing me, her eyes wide open.

“You can’t sleep?” I ask her, my voice scratchy and quiet.

She shakes her head. Even in the dim light, there’s no missing the shine to her eyes, similar to when we were having sex tonight. She bites her lip and inhales deeply, then whispers, “Come with me.”

“Someone’s horny when she’s half asleep.” I palm her hip and unleash my smolder.

She kicks my shin lightly. “On my trip, Avett. Come with me. I don’t want this to end.”

I stiffen, tension spreading through me at an alarming rate. “I can’t quit my job.”

“Sure you can. I did.”

“I have responsibilities, Naomi. I owe my parents money, and Gran looks forward to our Saturday mornings. I have patients and—”

“You have your regimented schedule. With your qualifications, you’ll never have trouble finding work.” The glassiness in her eyes turns liquid. A tear slips out. “I’m just not worth messing up your routine, am I?”

“It’s not about my routine.”

“Everything’s about your routine.” She squeezes her eyes shut and gives her head a small shake. “You’re terrified of change.”

This isn’t a newsflash, but terrified is pushing it. I strive for a steady life, not one full of spontaneous, one-way-ticket trips. And what’s so wrong with that? Naomi and I have tons of fun together. Our chemistry could burn up the Arctic, but we’ve always been very different. Why should I be the one to make sacrifices? “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t like change, so why don’t you toss your plane ticket and stay?”

She dashes at her wet eyes, the darkness in their depths more furious than sad. “I planned this trip way before we hooked up. I’ve given my notice at work. You know how important this experience is to me. How could you ask me to stay?”

“How could you ask me to leave?” I hate that my voice is rising. I’m not a yeller. Apparently, Naomi still twists me inside out.

“Because, when we’re apart, I miss you. I crave you. I don’t want to leave without you.”

“Naomi…” Fuck, my chest hurts. Aches. But she’s asking too much. “My life is here.”

“But you’re not being true to yourself.” She presses her hand to my sternum, over my racing heart. “Not here. Not where it matters. Your choices are driven by fear, not excitement or hope. You’re terrified to live your life.”

Craving stability isn’t fear. Following schedules isn’t weakness. What kind of life will I have if I don’t exert control over my future? “And maybe your mother was right. Maybe you’re nothing but a pleasure seeker who’s careless with her future, while I’ll have a clinic and my house and everything I want in five years.”

“Right.” She makes a harsh sound. “Your five-year plan. Well, I hope you find a woman willing to slot herself into your spreadsheet. Someone without her own hopes and dreams and wishes. Otherwise you’ll be alone in this lovely house, working at your successful clinic to fill those empty hours.” She shoves at the covers, kicking and flinging them off, then stumbles around in the dark looking for her clothes.

My throat burns. A prickling sensation spreads up my neck. I open my mouth to argue, tell her I don’t need her judgment. We were only ever supposed to be casual. I also want to apologize for my knee jerk rudeness, saying those hurtful words. In the end, I say nothing.

It’s like I’m seventeen again, faced with my best friend’s empty house, cement thickening in my throat. I don’t want her to leave. I don’t know how to ask her to stay. Nothing will bridge this gap between us.

She yanks on her shirt, gathers her belongings, and faces me. When our eyes connect, she deflates. “I’m sorry to push you. It wasn’t fair of me. I’m also sorry it took us seven years to find each other, and…” Her voice falters as she wipes her eyes. “I’m sorry we didn’t have longer together. Take care of yourself, Avett.”

She sniffles and walks out of my house—out of my life—while I struggle to catch my breath.

14

I’m not sure if I accidentally shot myself up with drugs at the clinic. Or maybe Mr. Ayala’s Jack Russell Terrier is a werewolf-dog and I’ve been bitten and am in the process of a grotesque transformation. Whatever the explanation, I’ve embodied the upside-down version of me.

I smacked both alarms twice. Dragging my tired ass out of bed is painful. The bruises under my eyes prove how little sleep I’ve had, and my joints ache, screaming at me for running twice a day. Even worse, my carefully honed schedule has gone to hell.

The past five mornings, in order to avoid Naomi, I’ve gone to Sugar and Sips half an hour later than usual. I’ve spent my time in there feeling out of sorts, like I’ve lost something crucial but can’t recall what it is. I arrive at work with barely enough time to gather myself before my first appointment arrives. The dogs and cats I treat manage to lift my mood with their wet licks and cute faces, but when I get home the only thing I can do is run.

I’m sick with missing Naomi, but I can’t see a path that ends with us together. There’s no point investing in someone long distance who doesn’t have a clue when or if she plans on returning home. There’s no point pretending I’m anything but a homebody too set in his ways to toss everything away on a reckless whim. I can handle cheat days, but not a cheat life.

I walk into Sugar and Sips this morning, gritting my teeth, hating the first step inside. The memories in here are a sucker punch. The recent ones are bad enough—Naomi flirting, Naomi teasing me with dirty words, Naomi making me laugh—but the old ones? How relentless we were with each other? The extent to which she went to make me uncomfortable? Our rivalry was proof of how much we cared about each other. For years.

All that time, only circumstances and misunderstandings kept us apart. Maybe, if I’d realized my mistake earlier, apologized and made amends, we’d be together now. Maybe we’d be planning our future together instead of having broken apart. Naomi might not have been missing vitality in her life. Not if we had each other.

Except this is who she is. A free spirit charmed by adventure.

I’m a robot with squeaky joints and a regimented heart.

So I suffer through my not-quite-right morning routine. I wait in the boring line and get my boring coffee, all enjoyment having been sucked from these ten minutes of my day. I try not to fall asleep on my feet as I close my eyes and take my first sip of much needed caffein.

By the time I open my eyes, Ricky’s in front of me. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks for the news bulletin.” Because yeah, I could double as a walking corpse. Ricky, however, looks different. Like he’s trying not to whistle a tune and high five every person in here. “Why do you look so happy?”

He rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. “I may have seen Aaron last night.”

The rich coffee aromas suddenly smell bitter, the acoustic tunes sounding too loud. Customers by the window laugh loudly and I wince, unsure what’s up with me. I’m thrilled for Ricky. I’ve wanted this for him for ages. I also want to smack that contented smile off his face. Which makes me a horrible friend. I’m just feeling so out of control. Not like myself.

Jealous of my best friend for being happy.

I glance at the door, try to will myself to leave for work, get away from the memories turning me into an imposter, but my body seems to weigh a thousand pounds. Not even the prospect of being late has my brain communicating with my feet. Instead, I do the upside-down Avett thing and fall into a chair, then proceed to stare at nothing.

“I think someone cast an immobility spell on him.” Ricky’s sarcasm breaks my stupor.

Delilah’s beside him now, seeming more upbeat than at the Spring Fair, the two of them wearing matching looks of exaggerated contemplation. “Maybe he got Krazy Glue on his butt, and he can’t stand without making a scene,” Delilah ventures.

“It’s possible.” Ricky nods sagely. “He doesn’t like making scenes.”

I sip my coffee, even though lifting my arm is an effort. “Glad to see you’ve both been watching comedy shows lately.”

Ricky kicks out the chair beside me and sits down. “I assume a certain dark-eyed beauty is responsible for your current state of glumness.”

I run my tongue over my teeth, unsure how to unpack what I’m feeling. I doubt telling them I’m a werewolf-dog will help. “Her flight leaves this afternoon. Once she’s gone, I’ll get my act together.”

Or I’ll end up running myself into the ground.

“I saw her this morning,” Delilah says gently, like she’s worried I might break. “At your old usual time. First morning she’s been in here all week. She kept watching the door, and when you didn’t show she looked as bad as you do now.”

So this is how it feels to be stabbed in the heart.

I search the compassion on Delilah’s face, looking for a clue as to why Naomi would want to see me, today—the day she’s leaving on her trip—when I was nothing but unkind to her the last time we spoke. I come up blank. I hate myself for using Naomi’s fight with her mother against her. It was low, calling her a careless pleasure seeker. I should’ve apologized, set things right between us before she left. I’ve been too worried seeing her or hearing her voice would make this debilitating pain worse.

“Did she say anything?” I ask Delilah, desperation seeping into my voice. “Tell you why she came?”

“Only that she never thought leaving would be this hard.”

Christ. I rub my chest. The movement doesn’t ease the spreading ache.

Ricky leans his elbows on the table. “I didn’t put off asking Aaron out because I wasn’t sure if he was my type.”

“I know that,” I say, latching onto the diversion. “You were insecure about the weight you’ve gained since high school.” The only weight he’s gained is muscle, but watching his face pinch and his spine straighten, as though he’s sucking in his gut, brings me a modicum of joy.

He kicks me under the table. “I’m more fit than I’ve ever been. You try hauling lumber all day long.”

“He is looking a bit flabby around the middle,” Delilah says, getting in on the game.

Ricky grumbles and I smile. For a second, it’s just me and my friends and our usual jokes, with Delilah back to happy. Then I picture Naomi in here, upset and antsy, watching the door, waiting for me to show.

My amusement slips.

“As I was saying,” Ricky goes on. “I had a feeling Aaron and I would hit it off, but that was the problem. I like going out, hooking up occasionally. I enjoy my space and not having to answer to anyone. It’s not like I didn’t imagine settling down one day, I just didn’t think I wanted something serious now.”

Delilah takes the third seat around the table, giving up the pretense of tidying around her shop. “What made you change your mind?”

He hooks his thumb toward me. “This idiot. Watching you deny how ass-over-heels in love you are with Naomi knocked some sense into me. As far as I see it, we don’t get to choose when we meet that one person who makes us better, or who that person is. We either hop on board for the ride or we miss the bus. I decided I’d rather change my preconceived notion of what I thought my life should be than miss out on something potentially amazing.”

I slump deeper into my seat and rub my tired eyes.

With Naomi, I started bending my rigid schedule. Nothing drastic, not like my current state of disarray, but I forgot to stress about my place in line or where I played cribbage with Gran or staying up late on a weeknight. With her, I laughed easily and felt challenged and looked forward to seeing her at the end of each day. I brooded less over my five-year plan and lived more in the moment, like at the Spring Fair. I was truly happy.

Then I let her go.

“She invited me on her trip,” I tell them. A vulnerable offer I squashed by insulting her.

“Oh my God.” Delilah grips my knee under the small table. “You have to go.”

“I can’t go.” I gesture half-heartedly at nothing. “I have a job and responsibilities.”

A job I love, but when I closed my eyes at night this week, I pictured Naomi and me hiking through ancient ruins, meeting other travelers, tasting new foods, exploring together. There was no denying the jolt of longing and excitement I felt through those fantasies, but a shot of dread always followed.

“What you have, Avett, is a fear of getting hurt.” Ricky’s words are firm but kind. They poke at the bruise lingering since E disappeared. The tender spot that’s worsened since Naomi hinted at the same thing: Your choices are driven by fear, not excitement or hope. You’re terrified to live your life.

“He’s right,” Delilah says, her voice harder than Ricky’s. “Love doesn’t come around often. Once, if you’re lucky. Don’t let fear hold you back.”

From my experience, the edge in Delilah’s tone isn’t directed at me. She’s likely thinking of how E broke her heart. I used to hope he’d come back for her, sweep her off her feet. Now, if he returned, I think she’d shoot him in the nuts.

I nudge her foot with mine. “If I ever see E again, I will murder him.”

“If I ever see E again,” she says viciously, “he’ll wish you had murdered him.”

Yep. She’d castrate him.

Fueled by her feelings over E or not, she’s the third person to call me out on the same bullshit. Fear. Insinuating my routine’s nothing but a flimsy way to protect myself from ever feeling as out of control and unhappy as I did seven years ago. Even Gran nags at me to loosen up my routines. What if they’re all right? What if planning ahead and living small is only half a life? What if never scaring myself leads to regret and misery?

“I can’t just pick up and leave,” I say, veering back to the reason I’m irrationally glued to this seat. Aside from leaving my boss in the lurch, the fresh food in my fridge would spoil. I have a dentist appointment next week. Gran may say she wants me to loosen up, but she counts on my Saturday visits. Trips like this take months to plan and organize, which…is kind of the point? Leaving on the fly would be doing the exact opposite of what I’d normally do. Throwing caution to the wind. Still, the idea of pulling the trigger has me queasy.

I look at my friends. “I can’t go, can I?”

Delilah brightens. “Of course you can. I need to live vicariously through you, and you need to get out of here and pack and meet her at the airport!”

Trip. Flight. Airport. Holy shit.

A frenzied sensation moves through me, nervous excitement humming through my veins. “I can’t just not show up for work.”

Ricky slaps my shoulder. “It’s not ideal, but it’s an emergency. I’ll head over to the clinic and talk to Claire. You can call her when you’re settled in Thailand.”

Sweat gathers on my brow. I picture Ricky showing up at the clinic instead of me, and everything in me clenches. Considering something so wild, so unprofessional and uncharacteristic, is beyond irresponsible. Then my mind skitters to E, who always pushed me out of my comfort zone and added adventure to my life. His disappearance may have weakened my ability to be carefree, but if he were here now, I have no doubt he’d shove me out the door and onto that plane.

Suddenly, I know. I need this. Gran will probably be thrilled I’m shaking things up. I bet my folks will understand. Work is messier, but fuck it. Like Naomi said, I need to start living for hope and excitement, not out of fear.

Unfortunately, there’s a snag to this plan. It’s called Naomi James.

We didn’t end on good terms. She may not want me on her trip any longer, but she came here this morning, at our usual time, for a reason. And I never completed the last three points from Cosmopolitan’s article on how to seduce my enemy.

Trick Three: When the time’s right, reveal your true feelings.

Trick Four: Be bold. Enemies harbor strong emotions and don’t respond to subtlety.

Trick Five: Put your heart on the line, even if it’s a risk.

Guess I’m about to find out if those articles are a window into the female mind or if they’re full of shit.

15

While my nervous excitement was thrilling when planning this ludicrous ambush, I’m more nauseated than pumped now. I can’t believe I’m at the airport. I have no clue if Naomi will be happy or furious. I’m unsure what kind of idiotic person throws his life into chaos for a woman. Still, I’m not backing down. I want to remember what it is to live by the seat of my pants. I want to kiss Naomi breathless in a Thai jungle. Wake up with her, no clue as to how our day will unfold.

The two of us, living wild and for each other.

But I’m me, so I have stipulations. I’m not upending my five-year plan completely. I’m merely…extending it. I’ll always be a spreadsheet guy, but Naomi is right. I don’t want a woman who doesn’t have hopes and ambitions of her own. Relationships require compromise and communication. If Naomi wants to be with me, she’ll have to meet me halfway.

Or she won’t and this will blow up in my overheating face.

I leave airport security and head to our departure gate, later than I’d normally be for a flight. I’m a four hours early kind of guy. Save your fake-shocked face for someone who cares. Arriving with only an hour before takeoff has slashed another five years off my life.

I trip over nothing as I rush through the terminal—my lack of athletic prowess is still alive and well—then I do that fake running thing as though I planned the stumble. A kid snickers at me. I try to offer a self-deprecating smile, but I’m pretty sure I’m giving him crazy eyes.

By the time I see our departure gate, my pulse is haywire. I search the seats, looking desperately for the woman who used to make my mornings a living hell.

The second I spot her, my breath whooshes out. She’s sitting alone, her hazy attention aimed at the windows, as though she’s only half seeing the planes and tarmac outside, and my heart swells. Love. I seriously love Naomi James, villainous vixen, Ms. High and Mighty herself. Not fickle, infatuated love. This is true love. Scary love. The kind of soul-deep love that makes a guy slice and dice his five-year plan.

Too focused on whatever she’s watching, she has no clue I’m here. I’m lightheaded with anticipation. I can’t imagine never having let myself experience this thrill of the unknown. This buzzing through my limbs. The internal frenzy that has me smiling so wide I must look deranged.

Then she glances my way.

Her mouth drops open. My chest spasms. She’s up and moving in an instant, both of us rushing to meet each other, her eyes glistening as she launches herself into my arms.

“You’re here,” she says into my neck.

I should speak. There’s more to discuss, but that Cosmo magazine was on point. I can’t waste a minute of my bold move. I capture her lips in a searing kiss, not caring who’s watching us, gripping her back like she’s a mirage who might slip away.

Two softer kisses later, I say, “Where else would I be?”

She blinks up at me with damp eyes. “I went by Sugar and Sips this morning. I wanted to talk, maybe delay my trip or something, but you weren’t there.”

“I’ve been in a bit of a funk this week. Routine’s been shot to hell.”

Her watery laugh warms my soul.

I take her hand and brush my lips over her knuckles. “I’m sorry about what I said the night you left. Insulting you was envy talking. Jealousy at how strong you are, how confident in yourself and brave. I haven’t been that way in a long time.”

“Since E left,” she says softly. I nod. “I’m sorry I pushed so hard. It wasn’t right to ask you to give up your life for me. I think part of me was still insecure from our past, worried you didn’t feel the way I hoped.”

I trace her regal jawline, brush the backs of my fingers down her cheek. “I feel it all. You’re worth a little mayhem. As scary as coming with you is, not going and losing you is worse.” I force saliva down my throat. It’s now or never. “I love you, Naomi.”

She makes a small noise, then grabs my face and kisses me, smiling against my lips while saying, “God, I love you so much.”

My body grows hot, my cock thickening too quickly for our environment. I picture the vet deworming posters with their nasty imagery, then press my forehead to hers. “There’s a catch, though.”

She laughs. “I’d say I’m surprised, but this is you.”

For better or for worse, I’ll always be me. “While my love for you is both the shock of the century and undeniable, if I do this, I need concessions from you.”

Her lips quirk. “Did you make a pros-and-cons spreadsheet and settle on an even set of compromises we’ll each make?”

“You’d be disappointed if I didn’t.”

“I would, and I’m all ears.”

I nose her hair out of the way and kiss the edge of one of those gorgeous ears. “You’re stunning and smart, and I envy your confidence. Your ability to trust yourself and live in the moment inspires me, but I’ll always be more reserved and plan-oriented than you. As such, I don’t want this trip to be open-ended. I want to travel and explore with you, but I need a timeline. Claire won’t be happy about how I left. I’m not sure she’ll rehire me after, but when I talk to her, I want to do it with a plan. I also love Windfall and know I want to live there when I’m not being the spontaneous traveler you’ve unleashed.”

I don’t give her an ultimatum. This is a discussion, not a threat…and I’ve already purchased this ticket. Still, if I’m willing to add some anarchy to my life for her, I’m hoping she cares enough to curb her plans for me.

Instead of replying, she kisses me again, deeper and slower this time.

A little girl near us eeeews.

My jeans resume their uncomfortable tightness.

She nips my lip and pulls back, excitement shining in her eyes. “I think a year is an adequate length of time.”

I scoff. “Who do you think I am? Survivorman? Six months, tops.”

“Six months is barely enough time to find our rhythm on the road. We need at least eight months to dislodge the stick from your perpetually clenched ass.”

God, I love when she’s feisty with me. And I was willing to settle on nine, so… “Fine. Eight, it is. But if anyone’s ass will be defiled, it’s yours.”

Her wicked grin has me wishing we were alone. And naked.

I wrap my arms around her and tug her into my chest, picturing us stepping off the plane in Thailand, tasting new foods, cracking up over how I botch the language, sleeping together every night. It’s easy to picture these scenes, because I don’t have to wonder about Naomi James any longer. I know who she is and that we’re better together. We’ll keep pushing each other and testing our limits. I look forward to her dragging me out of my comfort zone.

All I have to do is continue proving she did right by choosing me.

On that front, I say, “My other stipulation is if there’s any driving of any sort, in any type of motorized vehicle, you’re the passenger.”

She balks at me. “If you drive, we’ll need to extend the trip another year. Turtles move faster than you in a car.”

“If you drive, we’ll end up in a Thai jail.”

She takes my hand and leads me toward the seats. “Fine. I’ll accept your stipulations, but I have one of my own.” Once we’re seated, she leans into my side. “Under no circumstances are you allowed to enter any women’s lingerie shops. Lord knows what depravity you’ll get up to.”

I laugh. She kisses my neck.

Yeah, this will be one hell of a trip.

THE END

If you miss Avett and Naomi already, you can catch up with them in 50 WAYS TO WIN BACK YOUR LOVER, Book 1 in the Bower Boys series. You won’t believe what they’re up to in three years!

Even better, you’ll find out why E’s family vanished and get to watch him desperately try to win back his lost love, Delilah Moon (who might seriously shoot him in the nuts).

Snap up 50 WAYS TO WIN BACK YOUR LOVER now and keep reading for an excerpt!

50 WAYS TO WIN BACK YOUR LOVER

Chapter One

Despite what some people think, I’m not dead. I haven’t been stranded on a desert island these past ten years. No one’s sold me into forced labor, where I’ve been sewing yoga pants for five cents an hour while a tyrant yells at me, spittle flying, to work faster or he’ll rip out my fingernails. Nope. I’m here. Very much alive, no spittle on my clean-shaven face.

At least I was alive, until the loudspeaker at the terminal gate crackled to life and uttered two words, one name—the name that has the power to cut me down at my knees: Delilah Moon.

Now? I’m definitely dying. Or is this a mini stroke?

My brain’s gone on the fritz, unable to form a coherent thought other than Delilah Moon, Delilah Moon, Delilah Moon. I’m pretty sure if I move, my rubbery legs will fold, sending my frozen face on a collision course with the half-crushed Dorito on the retro carpet.

Delilah Lost-Love-of-My-Life Moon.

I scrutinize the departure area like a sniper who’s inhaled a case of Red Bull: furtive reconnaissance with a frantic edge. Kids sit slouched, half sliding off their faux-leather seats, faces plastered to their phones. The adults aren’t much better, thumbing their devices, eyes dilated in their Cell Trances. My brother, Lennon, is thankfully still off perusing the terminal’s stores. If any of my brothers heard that name drop, they’d shout a list of reasons why I have to hide from Delilah Moon—if this is the Delilah Moon—and remind me we aren’t allowed to talk to anyone from our pasts.

Heart racing, I lean toward the elderly woman beside me. “Did they just say the name Delilah Moon?”

She glances at the departure counter, magazine crinkling in her grip. “I believe they did. It’s a lovely name, isn’t it?”

It isn’t lovely. It’s downright angelic, but that name cannot be here. “Maybe they said Eliza Woon. It was tough to hear clearly.”

“No.” The man next to her leans forward, shaking his bald head at me. “Definitely Delilah. It made me think of dahlias, my wife’s favorite flower.” He winks at her.

A sudden flash hits me: chasing a shrieking Delilah through the wildflowers on her property. Laughter, sun, carefree bliss. Scooping her up and tugging her down, her fingers threading into my hair, our lips connecting under a canopy of daisies and scarlet flax.

My stroke intensifies, but I still don’t see her. Not one hint of the breathtaking woman who undeniably owned my heart. And my pulse? Still running a three-minute mile.

Unsure what to do, I reach for my sketchbook—any possible distraction—and proceed to cut my finger on a page. Because, of course. Blood beads along my skin. I suck on it, attempting to control my hamster-wheel thoughts. It’s not her, right? It can’t be her. Nope. No way. Definitely not her. Life wouldn’t be this cruel.

By the time I glance up again, it’s clear Life enjoys kicking me in the nuts.

My first and only love is hurrying up to the departure counter. Her curly brown hair is longer than I remember, her hips rounder, her body fuller. Lush. The girl I knew is transformed into a woman, and instantly, my eyes burn. I stand up. Sit down. I’m a malfunctioning jack-in-the-box. Which kind of sums up my current self, forever confined and controlled, forced to embody a different name and altered existence because…are you ready for this kicker?

I happen to be in witness protection.

Delilah leans on the counter, angled away from me. From this vantage point, I can’t tell if her lips still have that bee-stung look or if her blue eyes still undo me with one glance.

Another breath-stealing flash hits: Delilah and me, sixteen and inseparable, lying side by side in her barn, hay sneaking into uncomfortable places, her family’s Arabians snorting and nickering while we take turns flipping comic book pages, her eyes so blue they’re the color of summer freedom and Sonic the Hedgehog, the parts of my body touching hers on fire with a heady mix of love and lust.

The burning behind my eyes worsens.

“Why is your face red?” Lennon’s holding a plastic bag with whatever he bought, his back to Delilah, clueless to the source of my overheating body.

“I’m not red,” I force out, but my rushing blood isn’t corroborating my lie. I lean to the side, desperate for another glimpse of Delilah.

She rotates, digs into her purse, searching for something.

I pull back and hide behind Lennon.

He tilts his head and rubs his beard, the cuffed sleeve of his plaid button-down slipping to his elbow. “There’s a definite red tinge.” He smiles at our elderly neighbors. “Doesn’t he look flushed?”

The couple scrutinizes me. “I think it’s the name,” the lady unhelpfully blurts. “The flight attendant said—”

“Nothing.” I pop up, grab my satchel, and forcibly lead Lennon away from that couple and Delilah.

“Are we on a reality show?” Lennon says, getting up in my space. He’s not as tall as me, but he’s fit from his mountain biking and rock climbing. He’d tackle me if he knew Delilah was nearby. “Is this the part where we’re given clues and I have to figure out why you’re being rude to senior citizens? What’s up with you?”

“I mean, we could be on a reality show. Our asshole father did launder money for a drug cartel. Netflix would cream themselves to tell our story.” Five boys forced into witness protection, ripped suddenly from their lives like pages from a censored book.

That shit would kill it in ratings.

Lennon smirks. “Michael Fassbender would play me. He’s not as hot, but he can pull off the beard and reddish-brown hair.”

“You’re delusional,” I say, ducking as Delilah leaves the departure counter. “He’s not hipster enough.”

Lennon scowls. “How many times do I have to tell you, wearing plaid doesn’t make me a hipster. And you’re acting weird. What was the lady saying about a name?”

“Nothing.” I peek at Delilah again. She takes a seat beside some dude wearing orange jeans, thankfully facing away from us.

Even if she saw me, the odds of her recognizing me are slim. I’m twenty-seven, not seventeen. My Justin Bieber haircut is thank-fuck gone, replaced with shorter strands I struggle to tame, but at least I don’t look like someone dropped a limp mop on my head. I’m taller and fuller, not muscled up like my three oldest brothers, but I run like my life depends on it, which it kind of does. The six-pack I didn’t have when Delilah first took off my shirt has emerged. I’m now Brian Williams, not Edgar Bower—E to my friends back then—but I still have a telltale scar through my upper lip. She might notice that defining feature or see our treasure trove of memories swimming through my eyes.

Orange Jeans Guy smiles at her. She smiles back.

I clench my jaw, mentally talking myself down from doing something stupid like telling Orange Jeans Guy to take a hike.

Delilah Moon isn’t mine. She hasn’t been mine for ten long years, and if she knew I was within fifty feet of her, she’d probably use my face for target practice. (Delilah won Windfall’s skeet shooting contest at age fifteen.) Leaving her without a word was bad enough. Ghosting her after we made love for our first and only time?

Forget skeet shooting. She’d probably launch a grenade at my crotch.

“Actually,” I tell Lennon, struggling to inflate my lungs. “I am feeling off.”

An ache has settled in my chest, my dormant love for her scrabbling to the surface. If I tell Lennon I’m stealing glimpses of Delilah’s slightly sloped nose, wishing I could brush my nose against hers as our lips slowly meet, he’ll forcibly drag me away from here, and I’m not ready to lose sight of her again. Not yet.

“I’m having a Delilah Day,” I tell him. A partial lie.

“Oh, yeah. Okay.” His sympathetic tone doesn’t ease my churning panic. “It’s been a while since you’ve had one of those.”

Delilah Days were my most morose days during our early years in WITSEC, aka witness protection and my messed-up life. I’d sit on social media obsessively, too nauseous to eat, my skin that translucent bluish color of an underground dweller who never saw daylight, reading Delilah’s old posts over and over—worried messages that grew increasingly desperate.

If anyone knows where the Bowers are, please contact me.

E, if you see this, call me. I’m freaking out.

E, I don’t understand. Where are you?

How could you leave me like this?

As you can imagine, I didn’t cope well. Kind of like now.

“It has been a while since I’ve felt this intense,” I say.

Adjusting his plastic bag, Lennon crosses his arms. “Something specific bring it on?”

“Nothing major.” Unless you count seeing my former best friend and lover for the first time in ten years. “The departure counter called out the name Eliza Woon, which sounded like Delilah Moon. And this connector going through Charlotte is throwing me off, knowing we’ll be close to Windfall.”

He huffs. “I knew taking this flight was a bad idea.”

We’d normally never have booked a flight going to Charlotte, so close to our former hometown, but my meeting with my agent in New York got pushed back. We had to change our flights home to Houston and wound up heading there of all places.

“Anyway.” Lennon rocks on his heels. “I know this is rough. I totally miss Windfall too. The festivals were a blast and the hiking and biking trails are killer,” he says wistfully. “But it’s different for you with Delilah. Any specific memories coming back?”

A nervous laugh almost escapes me. “Nope. Nothing specific.”

“Well, I’m here for you. Unless you drink my beer at home again. Then you’re on your own.”

“I don’t like your hipster beers.”

He holds up his middle finger. “I’ll piss in the cans next time and seal them up. Maybe you’ll like that better.”

Living with Lennon and riling him up with hipster jokes is usually entertaining, but I’m a second from nuclear meltdown.

I glance at Delilah’s riotous hair, needing more from Lennon. Something. A hint of what I’m supposed to do. I mean, what if seeing Delilah out of the blue is fate trying to push us back together? “I was just thinking, wouldn’t it be wild if I ran into Delilah here? Like, if she happened to be on our flight and I had the chance to talk to her.”

“Not really,” he says, his tone hardening, “since there’s a death threat on our heads. If you saw Delilah, we’d run our asses away from here and book another flight.”

“Ha, ha,” I say stiffly. “I was just playing the what-if game.”

Except this isn’t a game. My chest aches from her proximity. Delilah’s name is a love letter looping through my mind. If I tell Lennon she’s here, I’ll lose this tiny connection to her, even if it’s fleeting. So, no, I haven’t contemplated ditching this flight. I’ve barely walked ten paces from Delilah’s orbit.

“Anyway,” I say, going for nonchalance. “It’s just a rough day.”

But also kind of amazing. Seeing Delilah brings back our first kiss outside of Haddie’s Diner—the taste of innocence and Rocky Road on her tentative tongue—sneaking into her room and leaving flowers by her bed, fighting with her over which comic book we’d read, cradling her all night after her father’s heart attack, then again after the funeral, surprising her with a puppy—Dill Pickle—from Big Joe’s litter, spending afternoons sketching her on our wildflower picnics, confessing that she made my heart feel like a hot air balloon, so big and bright and full it could carry me to Mars. “You’re not Delilah Moon,” I’d tell her. “You’re Delilah Mars. That’s where my heart is. In Mars, stuck on you.”

Lennon’s talking about some book he bought, but I don’t listen. Orange Jeans Guy is on his phone now, as is Delilah. I alter my angle to see her face better. She’s too far for me to absorb small details, but she’s smiling while she talks. Her skin is more cream than tan, like she doesn’t spend hours outside anymore. The intensity of her blue eyes isn’t as clear from here, but her lips are as full as I remember—bee-stung and plump—that Cupid’s bow in the center teasing me with its feminine dip. Her jeans and white T-shirt are casual, perfectly Delilah, accentuating her fuller figure.

In two seconds, I’m addicted.

“Jesus.” Lennon waves in front of my face. “You really are out of it today.”

I blink at him. “Honestly, I’m fine. And dandy. Totally fine and dandy.”

“Fine people don’t say the word dandy.” He narrows his eyes at me.

Unable to resist, I steal another look at Delilah…and Lennon starts to turn, intent on following my traitorous eyes. Not good.

I grab his shoulders and force his focus on me. “Tell me more about your book.”

“You’re evading.”

“No, I really want to hear about your book.”

“Likely story, Captain Weirdo. Something else is going on with you.”

He twists out of my grip and turns.

My heart climbs into my throat. “I’m hungry. We should get a snack for the flight.”

Ignoring me, he searches the departure area and doesn’t seem to notice Delilah. Then he does a double take. “No, no, no. No fucking way.”

Face pale, Lennon whips back and drags me past a coffee shop to a different departure area. “That was Delilah.”

“Are you sure?” I rub the back of my sweaty neck. “I’m almost positive they said Eliza.”

He points a furious finger at my face. “You cannot talk to her. You can’t breathe near her or even look at her. We can’t be here at all.”

“I didn’t plan this. I’m as shocked as you are she’s here.”

“But you lied about it, and in case you’ve forgotten, the cartel our traitor father testified against is still alive and well. Connecting with anyone from our pasts could paint targets on all our heads.”

Like I need the reminder.

But Delilah Moon isn’t just anyone, and it’s been ten excruciating years of revisited memories, unbearable heartache, and frustration. As crazy as my story is, if I told Delilah the truth, she might even believe me. Learn to not hate me. The skeet-shooting-my-face thing might not happen. Hope thrums in my chest, hot and insistent, fogging up the rational side of my brain.

“I need to speak to her,” I blurt.

“Nope. No. No, you don’t.” He waves his hands frantically. “Absolutely no way.”

“Witness protection isn’t a jail sentence. No one’s forcing us to stay in hiding. We do this to keep each other safe, but it’s not like I’m turning up in Windfall where someone might be staking her out.”

Lennon drops his bag between us and forcibly holds me, the veins on his corded forearms looking ready to pop. “I love you. I love our brothers and Mom. I know your relationship with Delilah was intense and special, but family comes first. You cannot speak to her. Jesus Christ,” he mumbles. “We have to switch flights.”

A few people shoot us curious glances. The loudspeaker announces a departure.

I attempt to battle Lennon’s panic with forced calm. “We checked for other flights,” I remind him, slipping out of his hold. “When I had to push back the flight, you checked and said this was the only flight we could take because you can’t miss more work.”

He glares at me. I scrub a hand down my face, hating that I can’t see Delilah from here. Missing a second of her when she’s this close is physically painful.

“Did you have fun in New York this week?” I ask, changing tactics. “The show we saw, checking out art galleries, eating a stupid amount of salted pretzels?”

He squints one eye at me. “I did.”

“And why did I invite you to come along?”

His nostrils flare—annoyance as he picks up the clues I’m dropping. “I was having a rough week and you bought me the ticket and said I needed a break.”

Over the past ten years, Lennon shed his teen hippie tie-dye and bought hipster plaid and hipster skinny jeans and a collection of hipster hats, even though he claims he’s not a hipster. He grew his reddish-brown hipster beard and started an adventure camp for kids, where he’s upbeat and fun and a great leader, but he struggles to fill his programs. And like the rest of us, some WITSEC days simply suck for the hell of it.

“I hoped the change of scenery would do you good,” I say. “We all know how rough this gig is. I didn’t need you with me to meet with my agent and publisher. I just wanted to see you happy.”

He slumps and rubs his eyes. “You’re not supposed to talk to her.”

“I know, but what are the odds of seeing her here? And it’s been ten years. If she doesn’t know my new name or where I live, there’s no link to us. There wouldn’t be a digital trace. One quick hello so I can hear her voice, finally let her know I’m not dead.” When he stays silent, I bring out the puppy-dog eyes. “Come on, man. I need this.”

He growls and glowers, shakes his head a bunch while mumbling, then jabs my chest. “You can’t tell her about the cartel.”

“Of course not.”

“And you have to wait until we land in Charlotte. We don’t interact with her on the plane. You talk to her quickly when we arrive, then we bolt to our connection. You don’t see or speak with her again after that.”

“No interaction on the plane, then we bolt,” I agree, not mentioning the possibility of never speaking with her again. I can’t offer that promise. Seeing Delilah feels like kismet. Like that asshole Life is finally shining a ray of hope on my face.

“I need to get my head checked,” Lennon grumbles and pokes my chest again. “Not a word of this to the family. If they learn what’s going down, they’ll string us both up by our balls.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite.” I punch his shoulder, pulse thrumming. “I’ll just stand near her until boarding is called. Without being seen,” I add.

He huffs.

I spin and head for our departure area. People pass me, oblivious to my swirling nerves. My limbs are twitchy and hot, my steps clipped. Delilah is on my flight for a reason. I feel it. A deep knowing in my bones. Once I speak to her in Charlotte, I’ll somehow get the love of my life back.

I spot her easily, all that wild, curly hair impossible to miss. She’s still on her phone. My heart attempts to make a break for it and race toward her. Swallowing hard, I stay put and soak in the gorgeous view, wondering how she’ll react when she finally sees me. If she’ll feel as lovestruck and overwhelmed as I do. Or just furious. She laughs at something, then lowers her phone and pulls up her purse. Her hand catches the light.

I squint and lean forward.

A slight glow flickers.

A flash on her left hand. A ring on her fourth finger.

A sparkling round diamond that can only mean one fucking thing.

Don’t miss a second of E desperately trying to

win back his lost love, Delilah Moon.

Start reading 50 WAYS TO WIN BACK YOUR LOVER now!

ALSO BY KELLY SISKIND

Bower Boys Series:

50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

10 Signs You Need to Grovel

One Wild Wish Series:

He’s Going Down

Off-Limits Crush

36 Hour Date

Showmen Series:

New Orleans Rush

Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

The Beat Match

The Knockout Rule

Over the Top Series:

My Perfect Mistake

A Fine Mess

Hooked on Trouble

Standalone: Chasing Crazy

Visit Kelly’s website and join her newsletter for great giveaways and never miss an update!

www.kellysiskind.com

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kelly Siskind writes romantic comedies and contemporary romance novels for daydreamers and fantasists everywhere. She is the author of the One Wild Wish, Showmen, and Over the Top series, among other titles. Kelly’s novels have been published internationally, and she has been featured on the Apple Books Best Books of the Month list.

Kelly lives in charming northern Ontario, where she alternatively frolics in and suffers through the never-ending winters. When she’s not out hiking or home devouring books, you can find her, notepad in hand, scribbling down one of the many plot bunnies bouncing around in her head. Sign up for Kelly’s newsletter at www.kellysiskind.com and never miss a giveaway, a free bonus scene, or the latest news on her books. And connect with her on Twitter and Instagram (@kellysiskind) or on Facebook (@authorkellysiskind).