I turn back to find Ryan right in front of me, hands in his pockets, smirk dialed up to one thousand, and his gaze burning a hole through my face.
Mistake number one was looking away from Ryan.
Mistake number two was ever underestimating my greatest opponent.
Ryan’s eyes used to be the color of mud. Now, they are deep pools of hazelnut spread rimmed in 90 percent dark chocolate piping.
“June Bug,” his voice rumbles at me—southern drawl a little less than it used to be, but somehow sexier and…NO! No. No. No.
This is not how this was supposed to play out. I am the successful one. The one who fought tooth and nail to become an entrepreneurial success. The one who had to jump in the air while squeezing myself into the highest-powered shaping underwear I could find so I could stun my nemesis with my faux smooth form. How am I supposed to crush him under my stilettos if he’s towering over me like that?
“Don’t call me that name.” My hands fist at my side.
We are engaging in a standoff now. We might as well be outside of a saloon in the middle of a dust storm, because both of us have our hands on our pistols, just daring the other to flinch.
“Soooo,” says Stacy with an uncomfortable chuckle, looking between us. “Ryan, you obviously remember June.”
Neither one of us says anything. Neither of us smiles. Well, I should say, I don’t smile. Ryan still has that wolfish smirk etched on his mouth. I hate him so much. It’s like he’s reading my mind and laughing at me because he thinks he’s already won.
“Okay, well, I’m just going to go…somewhere far away from here.” Stacy shuffles off toward the bar where Logan and the rest of the party is gathered.
And now it’s just me and Ryan all alone in the corner of this dark, loud bar. The perfect place to murder someone and get away with it.
“Listen, June—”
Nope! No way does he get to start this conversation and claim the upper hand right out of the gate. I learned to never let Ryan be the first one to speak during our junior debates. He might have won most of those, but he’s not winning this one. Trojan horse, here I come.
I inch closer to him, square my shoulders, and poke his firm chest. “No, you listen, Ryan Henderson. I can see it in your eyes that you still think you’re better than me. But guess what? You’re wrong, buddy!” I really wish I hadn’t said buddy, but I do like my enthusiasm. “I am not that same little girl from high school who let you push her around and didn’t push back.”
Ryan interrupts my epic monologue with a chuckle, trying to steal my thunder. “In what world did you not push back?”
I ignore him, resisting the urge to settle the sharp point of my heel on the top of his shoe and press down, and instead, continue on, thunder unstolen. “I might’ve tipped my chin up for you back then, but not anymore. I am a grown woman who has scraped and worked my ass off to open my own bakery and establish a brand that is recognized across all South Carolina. I am a force of nature, so don’t mess with me this week unless you want me to cancel your birth certificate.” I take a step back and finally let a smirk touch my lips. “But who knows? Maybe if you’re nice enough, I can give you a position scrubbing dishes in my kitchen.”
I’m on fire right now. Somewhere in the world, Taylor Swift is feeling a tingle down her spine because of this “Bad Blood” reenactment. I feel like I could run a marathon or lift a truck from all the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
That is, until Alex, one of Logan’s other groomsmen, walks up and claps Ryan on the shoulder and says the words that make my blood run cold. “There you are, Mr. Big-time Chef! I’m surprised to see you here. Thought you’d be too much of a hotshot now to give us common folk a week of your time.”
I’m sorry, what?
My rapid breathing left over from my heroic speech is dying out now and is replaced with a ringing in my ears. I hesitantly meet Ryan’s gaze. There’s a quiet smile on his lips. A knowing smile. “It’s no big deal. I was due a little time off.”
“Ha!” Alex looks at me with a big dopey smile like I’m in on the joke. “Since when is becoming a Michelin chef not a big deal?”
Ryan still hasn’t looked at Alex. His eyes are locked on me, a predatory glint sparking in his dark-chocolate orbs.
“Michelin chef?” I ask, legs wobbling.
Alex squeezes Ryan’s shoulder. “I’m happy for you, man! Logan was just telling us how you’re the youngest chef to earn three stars. That’s ridiculous.”
Just bury me now.
Ryan is a chef?! Of course he is. I just made a complete fool of myself telling the man how successful I am, and here he is, brazen with three of the most prestigious culinary stars in the industry. Isn’t that fun? How do I always seem to come in second place to this man?
Alex’s smile dies when he notices the homicidal look I’m giving Ryan, and without saying a word, he just backs away. Smart man. It’s high school all over again where Ryan and I stuck to our own sides of the hallway, and people stared anytime we had to pass each other because there was always a chance of someone drawing blood when we got too close.
Except Ryan isn’t sticking to his side. He steps forward—invading my personal space—and leans in close to my ear while resting his hand on the side of my bicep, creating a romantic illusion to anyone looking on. Even though I don’t want to, I drag in a deep breath of his heady scent, which is both cool and spicy. I stay frozen like an animal in the wild that knows it’s being hunted. His breath grazes the side of my face, and I hate the way I still feel affected by him.
I will not tip my chin up.
“Thanks for the job offer, June Bug, but I think I’m good. Oh, and by the way”—his voice drops into a gentle whisper—“you have toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your heel.”
I cut my gaze down just in time to see Ryan use his fancy leather dress shoe to pull the toilet paper out from beneath the stiletto I was supposed to crush him under.
Chapter 3 Ryan
“What did you say?” asks Noah Prescott, the restaurateur on the other end of my phone who’s trying to get me to sell my soul for the next three years.“I can’t hear you over all that noise. Where are you?”
“Hold on. Going outside.” It’s amazing and frightening how fast an accent rushes back to a person when they go home.
I push my way through the crowded sports bar to the front door, disliking how people keep bumping into me, sloshing their drinks onto my shoes. It’s around 1:30 a.m., and we are at our fourth (and last) bar of the night. The air smells like sweat, tequila, and regret. And let’s just say that everyone in our party is less than sober, but none less sober than June Broaden.
To be honest, I had come into town with the full intention of making a fresh start with her. I planned to bury that hatchet and put the water under the bridge. We haven’t spoken since high school, which I thought would have been plenty of time to let our old animosity fade.
I was wrong.
When June’s green eyes locked on me, I saw her hatred burn brighter. Nothing has faded. It’s somehow intensified. And just like that, I was eighteen again, faced with the woman who makes my skin crawl—but mostly from how much I want her. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes narrowed, and I could see she had no intention of burying the hatchet. Nope, she threw down the gauntlet. This old flame between us is still kindling, and I want to kiss her now more than ever.
After our high school commencement ceremony, I almost did. I came within an inch of June’s perfect lips before reality crashed over me. I couldn’t kiss her on graduation day—not after all our years of dueling. Not when I knew I would pack up later that night and catch a red-eye flight to France, beginning my stint at Le Cordon Bleu. It would have been a cruel form of torture finally tasting June’s lips and having to leave them behind for good.
It was better to leave things as they were and part as enemies rather than lovers.
What sucks about all this is that, even after all these years, my situation hasn’t really changed that much. June still hates me, and I’m still only in town temporarily. After this wedding, I’ll head back to Chicago and either sign a contract to be the executive chef in the new gourmet restaurant Noah is opening, or I’ll go bury myself in the other ritzy kitchen I’ve already been working in for the past four years.
“Can you hear me now?” I ask Noah, feeling a little too much like the guy from those cellphone commercials.
“Yeah, that’s better. Where are you?”
“At a friend’s bachelor party in Charleston.”
“Ah, that explains why I was hearing so many female voices in the background.”
I shove my hand in my pocket to keep it warm. Wintertime in Charleston is nothing compared to winters in Chicago, but it’s still chilly enough right now to make me want to hike my shoulders up to my ears to hide my neck from the cold.
“Nah, it’s not like that. It’s a joint bachelor and bachelorette bar crawl with his fiancée and her bridesmaids.”
Noah makes a sound of disgust. “That sucks. She’s already taking the poor guy’s freedom away; did she have to take his bachelor party too?”
Yeah, I don’t like Noah either.
