The Rebound

by Winter Renshaw

  “Thank you.” I take the bags. “Tell your mother thanks, too.”

  “Will do.” Bryony stares at me for a second, like she has something to say, but I turn my attention toward the closed office door behind her. She follows my gaze and then laughs. “She froze you out, huh?”

  I scratch my temple, brows lifting. “Yeah. All I did was say hi.”

  “I swear you two need your own reality show.”

  I peer down my nose. “Why’s that?”

  “This is the most screwed up, drama-filled reunion I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’d hardly call it a reunion.”

  “Isn’t it though?” Bryony’s head tilts. “You moved back to your hometown where your first love still lives and you bought the house you promised her, then you gave her shit when another guy was hitting on her. I’m sorry, but you still love her, and a part of you came back here for her. You just don’t see it yet.”

  “Jesus.” I shake my head. She has no fucking clue what she’s talking about.

  “You need to figure your shit out,” she says. “But don’t do the whole hot-and-cold thing with my sister. She’s already been through more than you could possibly imagine.”

  The last ten years of Yardley’s life is a blank for me, one giant question mark. If she’s been through some shit other than losing her father and screwing up what we had, it’s lost on me and frankly, it’s none of my damn concern.

  But Bryony’s right.

  I do need to figure my shit out.

  And Mom was right, too. I made the decision to move back here, now I need to try to make it work.

  “The quilts turned out beautifully, by the way.” Bryony’s voice softens. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I take the quilts and go, and by the time I start my engine, I can’t quite bring myself to back out of that parking lot just yet.

  I don’t like this—the constant running into each other, the constant tension. These past few weeks have been living proof that this town clearly isn’t big enough for the both of us, so that leaves me with little choice but to talk to her in hopes that we can find some kind of common ground and agree to be civil with each other.

  Reaching across my console, I pop the glove box and fish around for a receipt and a pen. Scribbling my number, I climb out of my SUV and head inside.

  The bells on the door jingle and Bryony’s eyes widen when she sees me striding across the little shop.

  “Have her call me,” I say.

  And then I’m gone.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  That’s How It Always Goes

  Yardley

  Even when I try to move on, it’s like the universe won’t let me.

  Clutching the receipt with Nev’s scribbled number in my trembling hand after work Monday night, I close my bedroom door and take a deep breath. Then another. And another.

  I’m not sure what he could possibly want from me.

  I’ll admit I was shocked to see him earlier today when he stopped in, but I was about to hop online for a marketing webinar and I needed to close my office door.

  I smirk, shaking my head. He probably thought I was shutting it because of him.

  Bryony stapled the receipt to a Post-It—her way of ensuring I don’t lose things. But the back of the note has almost lost its tackiness—that’s how much I’ve been handling this thing today, sticking it to the back of my fingers, peeling and unpeeling, weighing my options and trying to predict every possible outcome.

  I’m going to take the high road, of course. I’m going to call and see what he wants. But I’ve already made my decision.

  I’m moving on.

  Are there parts of me that want to sprint into his arms, pepper his warm skin with kisses, ride off into the sunset with him?

  Yes.

  But this is for the best. Moving on is something that should’ve happened years ago. And it took him coming back to town and showing his true colors for me to finally see he’s not the same person he once was. He’s not the man a younger version of myself once fell madly in love with.

  And maybe that’s how it always goes. We change and grow and shed our former skins. The girl I once was and the boy he once was are nothing but a couple of faded memories, growing dimmer by the hour. Eventually we’ll hardly remember each other.

  At least that’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself.

  It’s hard, moving on. But I’m committed—as committed as I’ve ever been.

  My thumb hovers over the “call” button and I draw in a deep breath, my left hand buried in Dex’s thick golden mane. He glances up at me with his big brown eyes, like he senses my nervousness, and then he sidles up closer to me.

  A moment later, I’ve taken the plunge and the phone is ringing.

  One ring.

  Two … then three … four.

  Nevada doesn’t answer.

  Clearing my throat, I leave a message. “Hey, it’s Yardley. Bryony said you wanted me to call you, so … give me a call when you get this.”

  I hang up, cheeks warm for some inexplicable reason. It seems odd to call him so casually, like it’s some foreign thing to do.

  Placing my phone on my nightstand, I stand and stretch. I need to walk Dex and I need to heat up some dinner. Funny how I’ve convinced myself that I’m in a state of moving on, and yet the very first thing I did the second I got home from work today was hole up in my bedroom like some love-struck teenage girl and call Nevada.

  Rolling my eyes at myself, I clap my hands against my thighs and ask Dex if he wants to go for a walk.

  But I’m sidetracked the second my phone dings with a new text message notification.

  FEEDING THE GIRLS THEN PUTTING THEM TO BED LATER. MEET ME AT THE MANSION AROUND NINE.

  My heart lifts and my stomach sinks and all the while, I’m telling myself to zero-out any assumptions or expectations. This man is unpredictable in every sense of the word and I can’t imagine why he’d want to meet me at the mansion tonight, but the curiosity is eating away at my self-control by the millisecond.

  Collapsing on my bed beside my very confused-looking dog, I worry the inside of my lower lip, hands trembling still, and respond with a simple, “OKAY.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  I Used to Call You Dove

  Nevada

  She arrives at five past and knocks on the door three times. My footsteps echo in the foyer as I make my way to the front door. This house is still empty and unfurnished, filled only by ladders and paint cans and the like, but I wanted to bring her here so we could talk in private, and it seemed like the best option.

  Pulling in a sharp breath, I get the door.

  “Hey,” she says, unsmiling. She’s dressed in gray yoga pants and a pastel pink zip-up hoodie, and her dark hair is piled on top of her head. Clearly she had no intention of dressing to impress, despite the fact that I still find her sexy as hell, but I don’t blame her.

  I move out of the way, letting her in, and I latch the door behind her as she slides her feet out of her neon cross trainers.

  “So?” She squares her shoulders with mine, staring up into my eyes, her hands on her hips. “What’d you need?”

  “Thought we could talk,” I say, walking toward the great room. Pointing to an Oriental rug on the floor, I say, “This is about all I’ve got for seating.”

  She carefully drops to the ground, crossing her legs and resting her elbows on her knees. I sit across from her.

  Yardley studies my every move, sizing me up, trying to stay one step ahead of me, but her efforts are futile because even I am taking this minute by minute, second by second.

  “I don’t want to do this anymore,” I say.

  “Do what?”

  “This little game.”

  She snickers. “What little game?”

  “What do you mean, what little game?” I ask, frowning. “The hot and cold, the on and off.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Nevada.”

&n
bsp; I think she’s serious, and for a second I wonder if I’m imagining most of this—if I’m making it worse in my head than it really is.

  “Why’d you close your door earlier?” I ask.

  “What? Is that what this is about?” She chuckles. “I had a webinar. And you made yourself crystal clear. You want nothing to do with me, not even a friendship. I’m respecting your wishes. And I’ve finally accepted the fact that there’s not going to be any kind of a future for us.”

  Her words sink into me, hitting harder than I thought they would.

  Lately I’ve found myself thinking about the past, at least more so than I have in years. So many memories of us I’d been repressing, shoving into tight spaces in the back of my mind so I didn’t have to think about them. But the last week or so it’s like someone opened the flood gates and they won’t stop coming, filling every crack and crevice and quiet thought.

  “I used to call you Dove,” I muse.

  She exhales. “Yeah. My middle name. I remember.”

  “And you called me ‘vada.”

  “Why are you bringing this up?” Her brows meet.

  My lips press and I release a held breath before dragging my hands through my hair. “I don’t know. I just keep thinking of all these things. From the past. Things I’d forgotten about. Things I didn’t want to remember.”

  I have her full attention, and it’s so quiet in here the silence is palpable.

  “You have this birthmark,” I say, pointing at her. “Left side of your rib cage. It’s shaped like a heart.”

  She smiles, running her hand along the outside of her hoodie. “Still there.”

  “You were always doing these sweet little things,” I say. “Baking me cookies and leaving them in my truck so I’d have a fresh batch after practice on Mondays. My truck would smell like chocolate chips for days and the guys would give me hell, but I always loved that you thought of me like that.”

  “I still use the same recipe.”

  “When I had to get my wisdom teeth out, you insisted I stay at your house, talking your parents into letting me have the guestroom, and you never left my side, running out for strawberry milk shakes and spoon-feeding me pudding and applesauce for days.” I smooth my palm across my jaw. “When I think about these things, they’re so small and inconsequential. But they make me feel something. They make me miss you.”

  She’s frozen for a moment. “Wow.”

  “I know.” I rest my elbows on my knees, staring at the beautiful girl seated a couple feet in front of me. She’s so close I could reach out and touch her, and yet I know I shouldn’t. As much as I miss her, as much as I miss what we had, I’m not sure I could ever forgive her for breaking her promise.

  Growing up, I was known in our family for holding grudges. Mom said I got it from my father, but I wouldn’t know. I have zero memory of the bastard who left us.

  “We could’ve been so perfect together,” I say.

  “Still could be.” Yardley picks at a loose thread in the rug before her gaze flicks onto mine. “It’s not too late.”

  Shaking my head, I glance out the window behind her, the one that leads to the private drive that’s shielded by fences and decades-old shrubs, century-old trees. Now that I think about it, it’s kind of funny that I picked this place. It’s a goddamn fortress designed to keep people out.

  Not unlike my heart.

  “It wouldn’t be the same,” I tell her.

  She glances down, says nothing.

  “You have no idea how much I missed you, Nevada,” she finally breaks her silence a minute later. “I missed you so much it physically hurt sometimes. You left and moved on with your life, but I had to watch you on TV. I had to read about you online. About your engagement, your marriage, your family. And don’t get me wrong, I was happy for you. But I didn’t have the luxury of being able to forget you existed.”

  “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What do you want me to say? I had no choice. I had to move on. You did what you did. I did what I had to do,” I say, somehow feeling vindicated and yet hating the way I’m speaking to her. Heat threads my veins. Anger? Passion? Pent-up frustration?

  “Are you ever going to let me explain?” she asks, words slow and steady, as if she knows she has to tread lightly.

  “I don’t want an explanation.” My jaw tightens. “It won’t change anything.”

  Yardley stands. “I don’t know why you wanted me to come here. This was a waste of time.”

  I rise, following her to the front door. “What are you doing?”

  She slips her feet into her sneakers. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”

  “We’re not done.”

  Her dark blues lock onto mine in the dark foyer. “Are you mental, Nevada? You invited me here, started reminiscing about our past, and then you told me under no uncertain terms that you were never giving me another chance. Why would I want to stay? There’s nothing more to talk about.”

  Yardley reaches for the door, but I stop her, clasping my hand around her delicate wrist and pulling her toward me.

  It’s strange, touching her again. She feels like someone I’ve never met before and yet when I look into her eyes, she’s still the same girl who captured my teenage heart.

  “I’ve never been good at the whole grudge thing,” I say. She studies me, forehead wrinkled. “When I look at you, half of me feels … everything. The other half wants to punch a fucking brick wall.”

  Her gaze averts, but I’m still holding her wrist in my hand.

  “I don’t know why I wanted to see you tonight,” I say. “I just know that I wanted to see you.”

  Her full lips flatten for a second, and I find myself wishing I could taste them again. I still remember the taste of the raspberry mint lip gloss she used to stockpile back in the day. Several years ago, Estella found the same kind at some drugstore when we were in Buffalo. I told her I hated raspberry and she put it back on the shelf. Truth was, I didn’t want to taste Yardley while I was kissing Estella. I didn’t want to open those floodgates.

  “What do you want from me, Nev?” she asks, voice almost a whisper.

  Releasing her wrist, I slide my palm against her soft cheek and lick my lips. I want to kiss her. I want to feel her body against mine. I want my hands in her hair and her taste on my tongue. I want all of her, just like before, but just for tonight.

  I don’t know what’ll happen after this. It’s just something I have to do.

  “Nev—”

  I silence her with a kiss, and it only takes a moment, but Yardley melts against me, exhaling as our mouths dance and her palms rise to the nape of my neck.

  My mind quiets, an unanticipated side effect of kissing her, and my hands slide down her sides, cupping her ass before slipping down her thighs. I lift her and she’s practically weightless. Burying my face in her neck, I breathe her in, kissing her so hard my mouth burns, but she kisses me back even harder.

  A moment later, her back is against the wall by the front door, and her body is sliding down mine. I slide the zipper of her jacket down and let it fall, and she yanks my t-shirt over my head. Depositing a greedy kiss along her collarbone, my hand lifts the hem of her tank top before slipping beneath the waistband of her leggings.

  Yardley sighs the second my fingers slide between her seam and plunge inside of her. Her hips widen and her wetness tells me she wants this just as much as I do. Lowering myself, I yank her pants down the rest of the way and bring my mouth to her sweet pussy, dragging my tongue along her dampness before it circles her swollen clit.

  Her hand fists my hair as I devour her, and her legs begin to shudder. It was always her old tell, always the sign I needed to know she was close.

  But tonight, she’s coming on my cock.

  Rising, I unzip my pants and she reaches below, wrapping her soft palm along my shaft before pumping it in her hands.

  “I’m on the pill,” she whispers.


  My heart hammers.

  Our eyes don’t meet.

  In an odd way, something about this is more business than pleasure.

  This isn’t about two old souls reconnecting.

  This is two people on a mission, searching for answers, or at the very least … closure.

  But in this moment, the only thing that matters is the fact that I’m about to take here right here, right now, against the wall of my foyer.

  My hands slide up her sides, tugging her top over her head before unclasping her lace bra. Lowering my mouth to her nipples, I lick her pointed buds before depositing a biting kiss into her soft flesh that makes her dig her nails into my back.

  She always liked it just rough enough … the perfect balance of dirty and passionate.

  When I’m finished, I cup her ass again, lifting her hips to mine and steadying her against the front door. Yardley reaches between us, guiding my cock inside of her before resting her hands on my shoulders.

  Driving my cock deeper into her, thrust after thrust, her nails dig into me, gripping my flesh as she moans between kisses.

  Her perfect ass in my hands coupled with her bouncing tits and her raspberry mint taste are taking me back, and a rush of nostalgia heightens this moment for all of two minutes, and then I think about her ex.

  I think about his hands touching her in places they didn’t belong.

  I think about his mouth on her mouth.

  I think about her looking at him the way she used to look at me.

  I think about the two of them spending time together while I was a thousand miles away like some fucking pathetic idiot who genuinely believed his girlfriend was going to wait for him.

  Fucking her harder, faster, I groan, burying my face in the soft bend of her neck. Yardley screams, hips meeting mine thrust for thrust, hands in my hair, body undulating as she comes. Exploding into her, I hold her hips and push myself further into her, as deep as I can go.

  When we’re finished, she collapses against me, spent.

  Yardley’s hand drags across her forehead and she lingers for a moment, both of us connected still, and after a while she slides off of me, gathering her clothes and slipping them back on.