Chapter 4: : Chapter 4

My dreams wake me up, twisted and dark, and my hands clench the sheets as images flit through my head: a stormy night, lightning hitting the road, my T ahoe slamming into a bridge and then rolling down the embankment, Whitney’s scream piercing my ears—then her in my arms. She begged me to help her, to let her live, and I could do nothing as the light went out of her eyes. The memory crawls over me, and I sit up and scrub my face with hands that shake.

There haven’t been any thunderstorms here lately, yet something brought that dream on . . .

My dog, possibly an Irish wolfhound, puts his head on my shoulder, disrupting my thoughts. He showed up at the back door the day I moved in, mangy, skinny, and ugly, with no collar. I figure someone dumped him in the nice neighborhood. Or maybe he just found me. I give him a pet. “Morning, Dog.” He licks my hand, then rolls back over and puts his head on the pillow next to mine.

After I shower, my phone rings—Lois asking if I want to have breakfast at Waffle House and suggesting I focus on a rushing game against Wayne Prep next week. I hum a noncommittal reply, decline breakfast, and get off the phone.

Later, after I’ve gotten my workout clothes on and had a cup of coffee, another booster calls and invites me to First Baptist. “It’s the biggest church in town,” he tells me, “and oh, by the way, my daughter is just lovely and would love to meet you.”

My jaw grinds. I bet she would. The women are coming out of the woodwork to lock me down.

The people love me, but they’re meaner than a big-ass linebacker making a tackle when it comes to getting me a girlfriend.

Dog bumps into me, nearly knocking me down as he dashes to the french doors and barks. I hush him and follow his gaze out to the pool and see a naked cat standing on a chaise lounge. The thing is screeching like a banshee. Dog growls, and I push him back and go outside. The cat sashays over to me, rubbing in between my legs. Then it darts for the french doors to glare at Dog through the glass. Brave little bastard. I snatch him up by the scruff of his wrinkled pink skin—weird as hell—and read his fancy collar.

“Hello, Sparky,” I say in a dark tone.

I hold him in the crook of my arm, and he squirms to get away as I head to the pool house for a plastic container. I could call Nova—her cell was on the collar—but by the time she gets here, he might run.

I place the cat in the bin, gently, leaving the top vented. He doesn’t go in easy and scratches my arm, making blood bloom in a long line. “You’re a little shit,” I tell him as I frown at the memory of her, the only person to give me lip since I arrived in Blue Belle. Pompous jerk. Indeed. Even when I was young and brash, no one dared call me arrogant.

I heft the container up and start for the gate that leads to the sidewalk of the neighborhood. Her house is the smallest in our cove, a bit run down but charming, with faded-cream bricks, soft-blue shutters, and a wide stone front porch. In the driveway is a pale-pink Cadillac. I used to see Mrs. Morgan in it, a tall lady with dark hair. She brought me strawberry jam the week I moved in, and that was about the extent of our interactions.

I get to her front porch, then pause at the flower beds, my jaw grinding. Jenny. Dammit. An acquaintance of Tuck’s, I met her a few months before I moved to Texas last year.

A long sigh comes from my chest as I bend down and check out the two taller bushes, her birthday plants. They took the brunt of the Jeep, their stalks bent, bright petals littering the mulch.

After everyone left last night, I replayed Nova’s words several times, unable to sleep. Insomnia is a regular occurrence, but this felt different. Around two in the morning, I took Dog for a walk, but it was too dark to see her flower beds from the sidewalk. I stood there for half an hour trying to figure out why meeting my neighbor made me antsy. It was guilt, I decided, over the roses. I came home, googled yellow rosebushes, and went down a rabbit hole for an hour.

Leaving that behind, I rap hard on the door. “Jolene,” by Dolly Parton, comes from the house as the door opens slowly. I lower my lids as I take her in. Messy long blonde hair, one side flattened. Sleepy sky-blue eyes. Drool on her cheek.

Tall, maybe five-eight, she’s wearing what look like men’s boxers and a white tank top. A slice of her stomach is revealed, tanned and toned, and a pink feather boa is around her neck. My lips quirk at that; then I freeze when I see her nipples pressing through the fabric, erect and hard. I force myself to move back to her face. She takes a slow sip of the coffee in her hand, a bored expression on her face, but I don’t miss her nose flaring or the slow, steadying breath she lets out.

She leans against the doorjamb, cool as a cucumber, and her voice has thickened since last night, a slow Texas drawl. “Goodness. Ronan Smith at my house. Long time no see—like for real, you have no idea. Is residential cat catching part of your job description as head football coach?”

She’s got a mouth on her.

“I was worried this ugly thing would get eaten by my Irish wolfhound.”

“Huh.” Moving with grace and a good deal of I don’t care, she steps out to the porch with long legs, sets her coffee on an outdoor end table, and then takes the bin from my hands. She puts her face up to the clear plastic and talks in a baby voice: “Poor wittle Sparky, got caught by the big bad football coach.”

He puts his paw up and makes a “Help me” meow.

“He isn’t ugly; he’s an adorable Donskoy of Russian heritage,” she says, the accent gone, her tone flat. “They’re affectionate, clever, and protective. They’re the dogs of the cat world.”

“He scratched me.” I show her the dried blood on my forearm.

“Should we call the boosters for medical help?”

So. It’s going to be like that, huh? All right. Fine. I was dickish last night. I had good reason. I thought I’d be spending my birthday with Skeeter and some of the coaches watching football at Randy’s Roadhouse. We did that for about an hour; then they cut it short, and we drove back to a houseful of people. Then Jenny showed up—surprise—saw girls in the pool with me, and had a meltdown. A twenty-two-year-old model, she pushed back the loneliness in New York like a few women have. When I moved here, I told her long distance wasn’t feasible for me, but then she claimed she was in love and started showing up in Blue Belle.

After I got out of the pool, I took Jenny to my office, where she announced she was dumping me to date a Wall Street guy. I told her good luck; then she marched upstairs, found a dress she’d left, and stormed out.

I’d just recovered from that episode when Nova appeared in my kitchen. I assumed she was another candidate for the future Mrs. Smith.

“Thanks for the concern. I’ll live.” I stick my hands in the pockets of my N ike shorts, then change my mind and pull at the collar of my shirt. Still twitchy, I tug my hat down lower on my head and glance away from her, giving her my scarless profile. It’s become a habit—not that I’m vain, but I know they’re ugly.

“Your dog-cat was in my backyard,” I say curtly. “You should watch Sparky better.”

“There’s an old dog door at the back of the house. He must have slipped out before I got up.” She places the bin down, and Sparky jumps out, walks through the open door, and then jumps up on the back of a chair in one of the front windows. He stares at us with a smug look.

“Without hair, he’s very expressive,” she murmurs. “I love that little jerk. I wonder if he went back to your house to take a poo. It would serve you right.”

I frown. “I think we got off on the wrong foot last night.”

“Hmm, it was before that.”

I huff. “You’re not a Pythons fan, huh?”

A hesitant expression flashes on her face.

Right. Lois mentioned she’d dated Zane Williams, the current quarterback for the Pythons’ rival team. I’ve played him and beat him. He’s not up to my caliber. Or what my caliber used to be.

“You’re famous,” she muses. “I can’t figure out how you got here. I know the booster club has a private plane and tons of money, and we’ve had some great coaches, but . . . you?”

“A friend went to college with the current principal. He offered, and I like Texas football.” The fans are devoted, I dig the kids, and I didn’t have any other offers.

And . . . I needed a fresh slate. A new focus. Away from everything I’d messed up.

I shift on my feet, my eyes flitting over her again, sticking on those pink lips, the bottom one fuller, the top with a deep V. It’s the kind of mouth a man wants to crush—

My frown deepens. Something—

My peripheral vision catches sight of Melinda’s Mustang pulling onto the main street that leads to our cove. Cursing under my breath, I duck down behind the stone that surrounds Nova’s porch.

She shakes her head. “You’re supposed to face your problems, not run from them. Is this another one of your communication issues with women?”

“I don’t have issues,” I growl. I just don’t want to see Melinda. Last night, she hung on me like glue, even insisting on staying and cleaning up the party mess, not leaving until midnight. There was an uncomfortable moment at my door when she wrapped her arms around me, then tilted her face up for a kiss. I’m so sorry about Jenny, Ronan. I’m here if you need me.

Nova takes a slow sip of her coffee. “I predict an engagement by Christmas, then a spring wedding. Your china will be classic white, your pots and pans stainless steel.”

“No one’s getting married. Where’s she now?” I say as my leg sends a pang from my crouched position.

“She’s taking the turn onto our street. She’s got the top down, a scarf tied around her hair, and big sunglasses on. Did you see her pantsuit last night? Divine.”

An exasperated noise comes from me. “I didn’t notice.” Yet . . . I noticed Nova in her Johnny Cash shirt. I saw the curves under her joggers, the finely drawn features of her face, the languid way she moved. The moment she turned around in the kitchen . . . I tensed.

“I hear Britney Spears coming from her car. Yep.” She flips her boa, then sings a few bars of “Oops! . . . I Did It Again.” She stops and gives me a curious look. “Are you sleeping with her?”

“What? No!” A long aggrieved sigh leaves my chest. I can’t get involved with anyone from Blue Belle. I don’t want to lead anyone on. “Lois is trying to hook me up. I’m not oblivious to their plans.”

“Hmm.” She moves to sit on the top step as she gazes out at the street, giving me her profile, and it allows my eyes time to roam her face uninterrupted. Her pale-blonde hair hangs straight around her shoulders as the sun catches the honey highlights. Long dark lashes, winged brows, straight nose . . .

“She’s pulling into your driveway. Should I let her know you’re here?”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Just . . . tell me what she’s doing.”

“Really? I used to do radio work. I’m a jack-of-all-trades, really; I can do just about anything if I set my mind to it. My voice is quite good.”

My brow pulls down. “Okay?”

She looks at my house, then clears her throat. “A striking redhead walks up to the front door of the house and knocks, waits, then knocks again. Holding a box of what looks like D unkin’ Donuts, she looks at her watch and taps her heels, clearly not expecting to be denied entry to the coach’s lavish home.”

“I wouldn’t say lavish—”

“This Texas beauty queen is not deterred and moves to the doorbell.”

“A play-by-play? Really.” I glare at her.

“Mama always said if at first you don’t succeed, try to make more noise . . . and wait . . . she presses the doorbell again. And again.” She tsks. “That’s right; she’s broken Texas polite norms and rung three times. Whatever she had planned to talk about with the fancy-pants coach is important and couldn’t wait. She wants him to eat her donuts, folks.”

“You are insane. What kind of radio—”

She slants an eye at me. “It was a talk show about women who love football, if you must know. I did recaps of games. It didn’t pay much, but it was fun.” Her gaze goes back to the house. “Wait, what’s this? She’s pulling out a yellow sticky note made by the 3 M Company.”

“You’re making shit up—”

Nova throws up a “Be quiet” hand and continues. “She takes a pen out of her L ouis Vuitton—which is spectacular, one of the limited editions you can’t find anywhere—and writes a message, something that could probably be said by text, but this beautiful man magnet seems to feel the personal touch is best. She has written her note and is now placing it . . . wait . . . nope, she’s pulling it back. Her pride has reared up. Good girl. Don’t chase him, honey, even if it’s clear that Coach is the town’s adopted favorite son. Pretty soon, they’ll buy him an Escalade—”

I find a better position and lean back against the walled porch.

“And . . . that’s it, folks. She’s walking away from the house. Stops, turns! Will she go back? No. The beauty has failed and is leaving the property. She arrives at her car with a pout. Dang. Her lover has missed out on some yummy goodness—”

“Not her lover,” I mutter.

“She places the scarf back on her head. She turns to get in the car—wait—she’s turning and . . . holy shit . . . waving . . . at . . . me?” Nova rises from her seat and sends her a wave, a smile plastered on her face. “Damnation. She’s in her car. Destination: my house.”

I groan. “Don’t tell her I’m here. Please.”

She fluffs her hair, then rubs at the drool on her face. “How do I look?”

I skate my eyes over her, lingering on the curve of her breasts in her tank top. “I think you know.” Hot.

“Delightfully disheveled?” She shrugs. “This reminds me of that time I had Jimmy Lockhart hiding in my closet. He’d crawled in my window, and we tried to be quiet, but he accidentally knocked a lamp off my nightstand. I covered him up with clothes and stuffed animals. Nearly peed my pants when Mama walked in my bedroom to check on me. Of course, I liked Jimmy. He had a great personality. You do not.” She stands and straightens her tank top. “She’s here. Sit tight, Fancy Pants.”

And she’s gone from my view, walking down the porch in her bare feet.

When I can’t catch their words, I crawl closer to the edge to get a glimpse of what’s going on. My foot hits something—dammit—and I turn to see a planter rocking back and forth, an orange pot on top of a wire plant stand. I reach over to grab it, but the pot topples over the porch and lands with a thud on the grass below.

“What was that?” Melinda asks, her voice rising. “Your plant just fell.”

“Sparky. He adores pushing plants around.”

“Isn’t that him in the window?” Melinda asks.

Shit. I glance at the front window and see the cat on the back of the chair. His eyes lock with mine and convey, Busted.

Nova clears her throat. “Yeah, um, well, you see, I have lots of cats.”

“Are they all as vicious as that one?” Melinda asks.

Nova goes into her spiel about Sparky being the dog of the cat world, and I stifle a laugh.

“Is someone on your porch?” Melinda asks.

Nova coughs. Once. Twice. “Nope. That was me. I, um, think I have the flu. You shouldn’t get too close.”

“It’s not flu season.”

Nova coughs. “You never know. Sorry. You’d better go.”

I hear more murmurings between them until finally the engine of the Mustang comes to life. The radio picks up with Britney, then fades as she drives away.

“She thinks I’m a sickly, crazy cat lady,” Nova grouses as she climbs back up on her porch and plops down next to me. She crosses her legs and puts her elbows on her thighs, her hands resting under her chin as she gazes at me. She doesn’t look at the scars—no, those irises lock with mine and don’t let go.

“You owe me a petunia,” she says. “On the flip side, Melinda apologized for parking behind my car last night and promised she wouldn’t do it again. According to her, she’ll be over here a lot, and she’ll be using the driveway. Also, her father adores you. He’s a booster, yes? I recall he was a football player back in the day.”

I nod.

“You have to buy me a cat as well. I hate lying to people.”

I mimic her position and face her. I hear the chirp of a bird, the knocking of a woodpecker, a car, but it all fades . . .

There’s a strange tension around us, a thickening of the air.

She breaks it by looking away from me. “Sparky needs a buddy. I warn you; they’re expensive. I’ll pick one out, yes?”

“Sure. Thank you for the help.”

“I like seeing you squirm,” she murmurs.

“Why?”

“Payback.” A slow blush works up from her neck to her face as she mutters something under her breath.

“What was that?”

She clears her throat. “Just . . . life has a funny sense of humor.”

Before I can ask her to elaborate, my phone erupts with the chorus from the S teve Miller Band’s “Take the Money and Run.”

“Excuse me a moment.” After standing up, I walk to the other end of the porch, keeping my voice low, my back to Nova. “Reggie. Hey, man. Been a while. Whatcha got for me?”

He lets out a gruff laugh, and I picture him in his high-rise in Manhattan, his huge U-shaped desk, the pictures with his arm slung around athletes on the wall behind him. One of the biggest agents in sports, the man never stops working. “How’s it going down there in Podunk, Texas? You bought yourself any cowboy boots? I’d like to see that, actually.”

“It’s Blue Belle, and no, I don’t have any.”

“Pity. How’s the high school gig? Heard you won your first game. Your quarterback looks good. How old is he?”

Leave it to Reggie to be on top of the news, scouting.

“That would be Toby. He’s seventeen. What’s going on with you?” I ask.

“I got a lead on a possible college job. How do you feel about Stanford?”

“California. I love the sun. What job?”

“Quarterback coach. Half a mill is what Dunbar is pulling in there, but rumor is he got caught by someone on staff doing coke. He was arrested last year on a drug charge, and the team looked beyond it, but this is the second time, and I feel like he’ll go into rehab, then maybe resign. William Hite is head coach—you know him—and he’s incredible. I threw your name up in a call, and there was some tentative interest, but we have to play it close to the vest.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s a prestigious school with a long tradition in football. You’d look great in white and red.”

I grimace. It’s not about the money. I pulled in twenty-five million a year with the Pythons. My financial situation is set for life. And Hite is a great coach—the kind I want to be. I want to be in charge, have control of a team, mold it, and make it mine. I want his job. A long exhale comes from me. I don’t expect the offers to come pouring in—not when I haven’t proved myself on the college level—but my name does carry clout, and I can always hope.

He continues in a rush. “I know it’s not what you’re looking for. You want to be in charge, and someone is going to snatch you up, but we need to do this one step at a time. How do you feel about Stanford if Hite calls me?”

“I need to think on it. I can’t leave my team midseason.” I scuff my feet on the porch. “Keep your feelers out. Get back to me if you hear any more chatter.”

I hang up and turn back around. Nova stands a foot away.

“So Mrs. Meadows was right,” she says. “The rumors are true. You’re looking to leave. That woman truly does know everything.”

“You like to eavesdrop?”

“It’s a lesson all southern women learn early.” She shrugs an elegant shoulder. “We don’t care if we get caught.”

My jaw pops, frustration rising. I do want to move up the ladder. Once I set a goal, I give it my entire focus. I almost won state last year, and this year’s goal is to get that trophy, then elevate to a higher level, either college or professional. I never planned on coaching high school the rest of my career.

But I’m not discussing that with her.

I huff and raise my arms. “Fine. I’m going to check out your flowers, maybe replace them. It’s why I came over here—besides delivering your cat! Then I’ll leave you in peace.”

She takes a step closer until we’re nearly toe to toe. The smell of green apples wafts around her as she pushes a finger into my chest. “No, you’re not, Fancy Pants. I am. You wouldn’t know what to do with them.” She deflates, her shoulders dipping. “Plus, they can’t be replaced. Not the roses anyway. They mean something to me.” Her eyes shine with emotion as she takes a step back.

Shit. My frustration ebbs as I whip my hat off and run my hands through my hair, then clutch my cap. I know grief, that feeling of grappling with death, when you want to cling to any reminder. I wore Whitney’s ring around my neck for a year.

I search for the right words. “I’ve hurt your feelings. I said the wrong thing. Of course they can’t be replaced and you’d want to keep them. I’m sorry.”

She gives me a surprised glance, then chews on her bottom lip. “Right. You understand.”

“Yes. I’ve lost someone.” My wreck made the news for weeks; plus if she dated Zane, I’m assuming she knows.

Something catches her attention across the street, and her eyes flare as a groan comes from her. “Uh-oh. Mrs. Meadows has us in her sights.”

Lois stands on her front porch, purse in hand as she walks down to her car wearing a blue flowered dress, heels, and her Stetson.

“Hey, y’all! Glad you two are getting along!” she calls. “Don’t mind me. Y’all keep talking! Get to know each other! I’m headed to church if you want to come!”

“Maybe next time, Mrs. Meadows!” Nova says brightly.

Lois gets in her silver Mercedes and backs out, then pulls away slowly with a satisfied smile on her face.

“Great. She’ll be pushing you on me now,” I mutter.

“Good thing I’m not interested,” she snaps.

“Same,” I say, slamming my hat back on.

A female voice calls Nova’s name from inside the house; then Sabine comes to the door, dressed in shorts and a baggy T-shirt. There’s a spatula in her hand, and a purple boa is around her neck. She gives me an unsurprised look. “Oh, hey, Coach Smith. Are you here for pancakes? I can make a few more. They’re gluten-free.”

“Hey, Sabine,” I say with a smile.

“He isn’t staying,” Nova says with her chin tilted up, her eyes on me. “He just brought Sparky home.”

I exhale. “Right. I’ll see you around.” My hand brushes against Nova’s when I move, and sensation ripples over my skin, my body tightening.

Weird. The same thing happened last night when I escorted her into my office. I made sure to keep my distance after that, but . . .

I make it to her sidewalk before my curiosity eats at me, and I stop and watch her flip around, her heart-shaped ass swaying back into the house.

She. Is. Beautiful.

And dammit . . .

Since the moment she turned around in the kitchen, her face pricked at me, tantalizing, like a memory out of reach.

I’ve enjoyed women over the years, and most of those sexual interactions tend to fade into the background of my mind. Then there are certain women who take up real space in your head, the ones you react to in a way you never forget.

Even if you can’t recall their faces . . .

Those tingles . . .

Then . . .

Long time no see—like for real, you have no idea.

Then there was her mention of payback and how life has a funny sense of humor . . .

And those lush lips . . .

Her fascination with Leia’s cuff . . .

I stop in my tracks, my hands clenching.

No way. No fucking way.

What are the odds? The mere idea is impossible!

Walking down the sidewalk, I pull out my phone and call the person who knows about the party. Tuck answers on the third ring, his voice groggy. “Ronan?” I hear the sound of fabric rustling. “Dude. I just woke up.” He pauses. “Fuck, happy birthday. I missed it. I suck!” he calls out, then curses again, several times. “I’m sending you a big-ass fruit basket today! Jesus! My brain is mush on these meds!”

I chuckle. “How’s the ankle?” He fractured it last week at practice.

“Hurts,” he moans. “I’m out for a while. Slowly dying of boredom. Send tequila and strippers, stat! Better yet, take a break, and come see me. I miss your ugly face.”

I laugh. “You’re a baby. Buck up. Can you talk for a few?”

“All right.” He lets out a grunt. “Let me get up and hit the start on coffee. I have to hobble, so hang tight.” He puts me on hold, and I picture him limping through his spacious apartment in Manhattan, the one we shared for years. We bonded from day one—me the serious one, him the party boy. He was there for me when I woke up and made a plan for my life.

He makes his coffee, complaining about his injury. He bitches about a new wide receiver who’s young and fresh, River Tate, then tells me about his love life, his voice escalating. His latest girlfriend left him for a violinist. He mopes about it, then lets out several long sighs.

“So what’s up with you?” he asks.

I reach my house and face the neighborhood, my gaze on the house next door. I sit down on the wicker swing and trace my hand over the smooth wood. “Remember that night of the Pythons party? The last one I went to?”

“You were throwing back bourbon like it was water—yeah, I recall.”

“Remember Princess Leia?”

There’s a beat of silence, then: “We’ve never talked about this. You insisted. You said it was none of my business what happened.”

I’m not one to discuss my sex life, but that incident was particularly hard. I let out an exhale. “Right. Things change. She came into that party because she knew I’d be there. She was looking for me. You remember that?”

“Hmm, right. Maybe. Who knows? I just thought she stumbled in the wrong ballroom. You know they have those cosplay parties where people dress up all the time. You ever do that? Dress up as L uke Skywalker and wave a sword?”

“It’s a lightsaber, and no, that isn’t my thing. I’m just a collector.” I push up out of the swing and pace around the porch. “You pointed her out to me.”

“Everyone saw her, but maybe I showed her to you—I don’t remember.”

“You insisted on the bet with me.”

“Which I never collected because you clammed up and didn’t give me any deets.” There’s wariness in his voice, which means . . .

I sit down on the porch steps, making connections. “You told her I’d be there. Admit it.” Part of me has always suspected, but I let it go, not wanting to deal with it.

He lets out an exhale, and I hear a chair scraping back as he sits. I picture him running a hand through his sandy hair, maybe pulling on the ends. “Took you long enough to ask. Of course I fucking sent her. You needed to move on.”

“Shit. I knew it—”

He continues. “And don’t give me grief, because I’m your best goddamn friend in the whole world, and I was looking out for you, trying to knock some sense into you—”

“Stop your tirade; I’m not angry.”

“You were different after that,” Tuck says on a sigh after a few moments of silence. “You stopped drinking. You got healthy.”

“Did you date her?” Tuck goes through women like a frat boy guzzling beer. He falls in love; they leave, usually giving up on him committing; and then he moves to the next one.

“No.”

“So . . . elaborate. How the fuck did it happen?”

“You are pissed!” He groans. “You know I can’t stand it when someone’s got beef with me. I screwed up. I meddled like a mom, and now you’re—”

“Just tell me who she is.”

He clicks his tongue. “Let’s see. Her name, shit . . . she worked at the Baller, that bar we used to hang out at. Remember? You had to have a membership to get in?”

“No.” I wasn’t hanging out in bars the last couple of years . . .

“You were seeing Whitney then.”

“Right. You met this girl there?”

“Yeah, she bartended. Gorgeous, like I took one look and thought, If Ronan was single, he’d be all over that.”

“Hmm. You totally hit on her.”

“She turned me down. Weird, right? I mean, I am amazing, but I digress . . . anyway, one night at the bar, one of our games came on the TV, the last Super Bowl win, and she was really into it. We started talking, and maybe I was drunk, but I had the best idea ever.”

“Dress her up as Leia and crash our party.” I shake my head. “You had her memorize a line.”

He grunts. “When you say it, it sounds ridiculous, but I am brilliant. That outfit cost me two grand. It was a replica made by someone in LA.”

“Wow. You went all out. Did you pay her?”

“Ronan, it wasn’t like that. She wanted to—”

“You did.”

“No, I didn’t, asshole! Okay, okay, I initially told her I’d pay her, I did, but she insisted she was cool, and I gave her my digits in case she changed her mind, but she never got back with me after the party . . . come on—don’t be angry. You liked her.”

I did . . . but . . . God, the guilt I felt. I wore it like a mantle, part of it anchored with Whitney, the other side full of self-reproach that I’d hurt an anonymous person. For months, every time I walked into a party or a restaurant—hell, even on the street—my gaze searched for every blue-eyed blonde.

My gaze goes back to the house next door as Nova comes out to take Sparky for a walk. She turns in the opposite direction of my house, and I watch her disappear.

“Give me a name,” I say as dread builds up.

I hear him slurp his coffee. “It was something different. Star? Nope, hmm. Wait, wait! Nova! It was Nova!” He heaves out a sigh. “You mad?”

My chest rises, my jaw flexing. He manipulated, intervened, and set me up. She did too. She knew exactly what she was doing when she walked into that party. Yeah, I’m simmering. Disappointment hits me, unexpected. Part of me liked to believe that my night with the beauty was serendipitous, a message from the fates to move on—when in truth it was planned.

I click off, my head tumbling. He tries to call me back, but I ignore it.

Yeah. A long breath comes from my chest.

I get it now. I get it now—that tightening in my chest when I saw her in my kitchen.

It’s her.

The question is, What am I going to do about it?