“Thanks!” she grins, teeth white as snow, before trotting off to her girlfriends.
As I make my way across the bar, I feel the collective weight of their stares, but it’s nothing new. I toss back a generous swill of beer, coat my throat, and squeeze through an all-you-can-eat buffet of drunks until I find our table again.
“So what’d you think of Wilson getting picked up with the Cavs?” Brett asks when I return.
“It’s a dick move,” I say, taking a sip. “But at the end of the day, he wanted to go back to Cleveland.”
“Yeah, but they replaced him with Marconi. That guy’s shit,” Tate says.
I shrug. “He’s young, but he’s got promise.”
“Just hope it doesn’t cripple the rest of the season.” Brett takes a drink of his beer, shaking his head. I wonder if these guys are actual Raleigh Warriors fans or if they’re just pretending to be because they think it’ll earn them brownie points.
A group of girls approach us once more, their boyfriends standing back with nervous and star-struck expressions on their faces, and I pose for a few more pictures.
If this is what the rest of the night’s going to be like, I’m bouncing early. All I want is a good buzz, a little social interaction, and I’m good.
“Dude, you need some bodyguards or something,” Spencer says, chuckling like his stoner self.
“Yeah, Spencer’s available.” Brett slugs him in the chest and Spencer laughs, rubbing the sore spot. “Isn’t that right, Spence? Didn’t you say you were looking for a job?”
“Yeah, like ten years ago,” Tate says.
While the four of them razz each other, I glance around the bar again. It’s a less crowded than it was a little while ago, which means they’re going to be letting more people in in the interim.
I’m bored, elbows resting on the table as I pick off the label on my beer bottle while the rest of them check out girls. Brett leaves to grab a round and Tate takes the opportunity to gossip about how loaded Brett is—as if that might impress me.
Glancing around for the millionth time, my heart freezes when I see a couple of girls strutting in the front door.
The Devereaux sisters.
Pulling in a lungful of stale, smoky air, I turn away for a second, as if looking away could possibly make them disappear.
“Oh, hey. Didn’t you use to date that girl?” Spencer fucking points at the two of them.
I grab his wrist and toss it down.
“Jesus Christ, man. Don’t point,” I say.
He rubs his skin. “Dude, sorry.”
“What, you don’t want to see her?” Nick asks.
They’re all fucking staring at her now.
Great.
“Nah, remember? They broke up when Nev went off to play ball,” Tate says, smacking my back. “I’m sure that college pussy was un-fucking-believable.”
I don’t respond. These guys know nothing about me, clearly.
Exhaling through my nostrils, I slam the rest of my beer just as Brett returns with five fresh bottles, all Corona with limes wedged in the necks.
I fucking hate Corona, but I grab mine in record speed. The skin on my neck heats, creeping to my face, and my entire body is on fire. Being in the same room as her after what happened earlier this week makes all of this even more unpleasant for me.
It’s completely killing the pathetic excuse for a vibe I had going on here.
Chugging this beer, I force myself to be an active participant in this conversation, which has now morphed into some lame ass talk about life insurance thanks to Nick, but only for the sake of a distraction.
I’m not sure how much time has passed, but from what I can tell she hasn’t noticed me yet. If she has, she’s doing a good job of hiding it. I half expected her to rush up to me again and finish giving me a piece of her mind, but so far she may as well be on a completely different continent surrounded by a completely different ocean.
Part of me wonders if she heard I was here tonight so she wanted to show up just to fuck with me, but that was never her style. Yardley wasn’t juvenile like that. She was never manipulative. She never played games. She was always straightforward for the most part. It was one of the things I loved most about her.
“Nev, you good on life insurance?” Nick asks. I don’t appreciate that this miniature high school reunion has suddenly morphed into a sales pitch.
“Yep,” I say. “Got hooked up with a guy back in Raleigh. Thanks though.”
Nick nods. “You let me know if you need anything. I sell health insurance too.”
“Will let you know,” I say. My blood heats my veins, my heart pumping in my ears. I decide to leave after this beer, but not before glancing one last time in her direction.
Only when I do, I spot some douche guy in a plaid button down and holey jeans chatting her up. He makes her smile. And then she laughs. And he touches her arm before pointing at her drink.
The ass wants to buy her a drink.
Yardley nods.
My blood runs cold.
I think … I think this is what jealousy feels like? I’m really fucking confused right now, but I’m too intoxicated to even remotely process why the hell I’d be feeling this way.
My jaw is tense, my posture rigid as I watch the two of them.
As much as I hate this girl for what she did to me, a part of her still belongs to me in a way I can’t deny. And while I may not want her, a small, irrational part of me doesn’t want anyone else to have her either.
And I don’t know what to fucking do about that.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I Don’t Know What This Means
Yardley
“I can’t believe you’ve lived here this long and I’ve never seen you before.” The cute electrician who just bought me a drink and hasn’t stopped staring at me since he wandered over here flashes a pearly smirk.
“She doesn’t get out much.” Bryony winks at me, bringing the straw of her Manhattan to her lips. “Oh, hey. I’m going to go say hi to some people. You okay here?”
I nod.
It’s not like Brendan Moffitt here is a dreamboat, but he’s cute and friendly and a good way to distract me, seeing how Nevada freaking Kane is halfway across the room.
I had no idea he was going to be here. Zero. None.
And I’m one hundred percent positive he probably thinks I knew and I came here on purpose. I’d think the same thing after the other night. But rather than dash out of here like some loser with her tail tucked, I held my head high, kept my shoulders back, and strolled in like I didn’t notice him when he was the very first thing I laid eyes on the second we arrived.
Brendan’s plaid shirt sleeves are rolled and cuffed at the elbow, and he hunches over the high top table, leaning closer to me.
“So you run The Sew Shop with your sister?” he asks.
I nod. “And my mom.”
“Love that entrepreneurial spirit. My brother and I are opening up Moffitt Electric in a couple years. Just saving up a bit until then and working off our apprenticeships.” He brushes his sandy brown hair out of his eyes. He reminds me of one of the surfer boys back in California, only he’s small town, wearing plaid and tight jeans and possessing the tiniest hint of an accent.
His hands are worked, too. And I imagine him cracking beers after a long day of physical labor, which in an odd way is a bit of a turn on I never knew I had.
Hm. Guess a girl could learn all kinds of things about herself when she got out sometimes …
Resting my chin on my hand, I give him my full, undivided attention, smiling and nodding and laughing at everything he says when appropriate. I don’t want to seem too interested, but I don’t want to come off as cold and disinterested.
I’m keeping my options open.
There’s a whole world of opportunity out here, and I’m not going to reel in the first thing that nibbles just because it feels like it might be a big catch.
From the corner of my eye, I catc
h Nev staring at me. Again. Like he’s been doing since I got here. I haven’t looked directly at him yet, but his glower is so intense I can pick it up out of my periphery.
There’s a confusing intensity in the way he looks at me from all the way over there, but I’m trying my best to ignore it.
He made himself perfectly clear the other night. Everything I needed to know was in the things he didn’t say, the way he looked at me.
When I feel Nevada glance away, I steal a peak. He’s so handsome standing over there in his dark jeans and gray V-neck tee. His hair is disheveled a bit, and a boldfaced watch rests on his left wrist. From here, he looks like the quintessential, all-American boy next door.
Like he once was forever ago.
“Did you hear what I said?” Brendan shouts. I realize I’ve been staring across the room a little too long.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask. “It’s so loud in here.”
He follows my line of sight until it stops at Nevada and then he huffs, taking a swig of his Guinness. “Oh, you’re checking out Nevada Kane over there, aren’t you?”
He half laughs, but I can tell his feelings are a little hurt.
“He’s been looking at you all night,” Brendan adds, rubbing the label on his beer bottle. “Was kind of hoping you wouldn’t notice. Guess I can’t blame him. You’re the prettiest thing in here.”
“Stop.” I roll my eyes, sipping my martini. There’s something off-kilter about drinking a city girl’s drink in a small-town bar.
“Those ballers, man. They’re all dogs. If he’s bothering you, let me know,” he says. “I’ve got no problem saying something. Don’t care who he is.”
“It’s fine,” I say, offering a smile.
Bry is still all the way on the other side of the room, chatting up some friends. In a way, I feel like she brought me here and dumped me off. She’s such a social butterfly in a way I never was. I’m not shy by any means, but I’ve always been on the quiet, contemplative side, carefully selecting the ones I chat with and open up to.
Bry, on the other hand, can walk into a room of strangers and walk out with ten guys’ phone numbers, six new best friends, and two job offers.
No clue how she does it.
By the time my sister returns, Brendan opens his arms. “Bryony, why didn’t you ever tell me you had a hot sister?”
The two of them laugh. I glance across the room, catching Nev’s stare by accident. Only this time, I give him a good, hard glare.
He doesn’t so much as flinch.
Maybe he’s trying to make me uncomfortable so I leave? I can’t think of any other reason he’d be focused on what’s happening over here. He’s definitely not jealous, so it doesn’t have anything to do with the cute guy over here chatting me up.
Our stares hold for what feels like an eternity before I break it off first. Warmth rushes through my body, my heart fluttering.
I don’t know what this means.
“I’m going to grab another drink,” I say, leaving my sister with Brendan.
Good God, do I need one right now.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
That’s Not an Invitation
Nev
Standing outside The Leaderboard, waiting for my Uber to arrive, I check my phone to get an ETA before scrolling through the pictures my mom sent of the girls earlier this evening. She gave them baths, let Lennon watch a Barbie movie, and put them to bed by eight.
These cheap beers and this pathetic buzz weren’t worth it.
I should’ve stayed home with them.
But whatever. I got out. I chatted up my old friends. And hopefully my mom will lay off for a while.
A tepid spring breeze envelopes me as I glance up at the starry sky. It’s a beautiful night by most people’s standards, but I’m having a hard time seeing the beauty in the little things. Estella was always good at pointing out things like pink sunsets and double rainbows and snowy mountain landscapes, and she’d marvel at them like they were the most beautiful things in the world. I’d humor her, sometimes pulling over on the side of the road so she could snap a picture.
Estella would like this night. It’s warm but not too warm. Cool but not too cool. A full moon. A sky full of stars. She’d probably insist that I drive her to the nearest art supply store so she could buy a canvas and some oil paints and do her best to recreate it.
Her spontaneity was a little intense at times, and honestly, there were times it drove me up a wall, but she was so different from Yardley that that was all I cared about.
The door to the bar swings open, bringing a stifled burst of music with it for all of five seconds, and when I glance in that direction, I spot none other than the bane of my existence.
Her cheeks flush, though I’m not sure I can take credit for that. She’d been pounding them back pretty hard, pretty pink cocktail after pretty pink cocktail in that pretty pink mouth of hers.
Tight jeans hug her every curve and her low-cut blouse hangs off her smooth shoulders, sharing just enough cleavage to take my mind to a dark place for a hot second. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still think she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on.
If someone asked me who my perfect woman was? I’d describe her every time. Her chocolate hair, those stormy blue eyes, those full lips. The way she fit just beneath my chin. Her soft scent. The sweet lull in her voice. She was always content to linger in silence sometimes, content just to be with me. We used to drive around for hours and she’d slip her hand in mine while we listened to the radio. She never felt the need to fill the silence with conversation because we never really needed words.
She knew my heart.
And once upon a time, I knew hers.
Keeping a careful distance, she leans against the brick front of the building and checks her phone. A giant wet spot covers the front of her navy blouse. I’m guessing someone spilled a drink on her and she wants to go home.
“If you’re going to keep gawking at me, the least you can do is say something,” she breaks our silence.
“No one’s gawking.”
She huffs, lifting her head and placing her phone in her back pocket. Her vision is fixed on the parked car in front of her. Yardley won’t so much as blink in my direction.
“You haven’t stopped staring me down all night,” she says, arms crossing her chest as she presses one foot against the building, knee bent. “Want to explain yourself, Kane?”
Even if I could explain why I couldn’t stop watching her, I wouldn’t. It’s none of her business how or why I feel the way I do. And I don’t owe her an explanation. I don’t owe her a fucking thing.
Besides, if I told her watching her smile at another man sent a burn to my chest and a fever to my blood, she’d think I still loved her … or something.
The door opens again, only this time it’s the same lumberjack ass who’s been chatting her up all night. My guess is he’s coming to close the deal.
“Hey,” he says, breathless. “Your sister said you left?”
“I ordered a ride,” she says. “When a bachelorette accidentally dumps a pint of Corona on your favorite shirt, I think that’s as good a time as any to call it a night.”
The asshole frowns, giving her some pathetic puppy dog face, and she smiles. She fucking smiles.
“I’m sure I could get one of those bar logo t-shirts for you,” he offers. His desperation is showing. Hopefully she’s too keen to fall for that shit. “I’d just hate to see you leave when the night’s so young.”
Not only is his desperation showing, it’s a flashing neon light at this point.
“No, it’s fine,” she tells him. “I’ve already ordered my ride and—”
“Let me see your phone,” he says, holding out his hand, palm side up.
“What?” She chuckles.
“Your phone,” he says, smirking. “I’ll give you my number. And if you want to see me again, you call me.”
“I’m not leaving because of you, Brendan,”
she says. The douche canoe has a name. Brendan. I’ve never met a Brendan I didn’t want to punch in the face, and this guy’s no exception. “I really hope you don’t think that.”
She places her phone in his hand and I stand here, jaw clenched so tight my face hurts, while he programs his number in her phone.
I don’t like this.
And I hate that I don’t like this.
“I’ll call you,” she tells him.
He leans in to kiss her. I almost look away, but once I catch her turn her cheek toward him, I laugh. Out loud.
The two of them ignore me and within seconds, Brendan retreats back inside The Leaderboard.
“What?” she asks, finally facing me. Her arms are locked tight across her chest and her brows meet in the middle. “What’s so funny?”
“That entire thing,” I say. “It was pretty fucking hilarious.”
Yardley rolls her pretty blues. “You’re an asshole.”
“No, no.” I shake my head. “Lumberjack Dan was an asshole. Dude had no game and he was clearly trying to get a piece of ass. I saw him buying you drinks all night, rubbing his fucking scent all over you like a goddamned cat.”
Her jaw falls. “Why were you watching me all night? And more importantly, why do you care?”
I’m speechless for a second, wishing I had an answer to give that didn’t make me look like a hypocrite or a bitter, confused widower standing in front of the only girl who ever destroyed him.
Finally, I answer with a simple, “I don’t fucking know.”
Her expression softens and she steps closer to me.
“That’s not an invitation,” I say, hands jammed in my front pockets.
She stops cold in her tracks.
“You don’t have to continue with this whole … thing … you’re doing,” she says. “I get it, Nevada. You hate me. But you don’t have to go out of your way to intentionally be a giant fucking prick every time we’re around each other.”
The Rebound Page 13