“Didn’t you get all my texts?” She sounds frantic. It makes me laugh a little because I know that even though this is our first stop of the night, she’s already a little tipsy. Stacy is a lightweight. And when Stacy gets tipsy, she turns into the star of a reality TV show. Which reality show? It doesn’t really matter. A drunk person is the driving force in all of them.
“No, I left my phone on the table.”
Stacy looks appalled. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because I was proving that I— It doesn’t matter. How long has he been here?”
“About five minutes. He’s standing over at the bar.”
Nerves zing through me because this is it. After twelve years, my archnemesis is once again standing in the same room as me, and I fully intend to squash him.
My little black dress is hugging my curves, and my loose-wave, honey-brown hair is tickling my spine. I’ve been saving this dress for exactly this occasion. It has a high neckline but low-cut open back, making it the perfect combination of sexy and sweet. The mullet of dresses, if you will. Business in the front, party in the back. Even better, the slender long sleeves cover almost all of my shoulder tattoo, leaving only the tiniest sliver of pale-yellow sunflower petals to peek out over my shoulder blade.
I take in one deep breath before turning around and scanning each man at the bar. I search. I search again. I search one more time because…“He’s not here.”
“Yes, he is,” Stacy says in a matter-of-fact way that gives me a sinking feeling. “He’s right there.” She points toward the bar, and I whip my head around to her.
“No. He’s. Not,” I say through my teeth. “I don’t see any ugly men with greasy hair and rotting teeth!” I’m doing that thing where I’m yelling in whisper form with a smile still plastered to my face. It’s scary.
Stacy doesn’t back down from my intensity. She gives a look that says this ends here and now. “That’s because Ryan is not ugly or greasy.”
“But you said he was!” I sound so desperate now. I’m seconds away from breathing into a paper bag.
Stacy shakes her blond head, and if I wasn’t completely freaking out right now, I would tell her how pretty her new highlights look. “Nope. You always assumed he was, and I just never corrected you.”
“Why! That’s the kind of thing that you correct a girl about.”
Her eyes go wide, and her mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be kidding me! The last time I tried to mention anything remotely complimentary about Ryan, you took my fifteen-dollar glass of wine and poured it into the restaurant’s ficus!”
I did do that. And I stand by it.
“Now! Like it or not, Ryan is here, and he’s not ugly, greasy, or unhygienic, so it’s time to put on your big girl panties and woman up.”
Right. She’s right. This pep talk was good. I nod my head in agreement, trying to get hyped like those football players before they run out of the tunnel. I feel a new adrenaline coursing through me—an electric shock to my system that triggers my brain to switch into high alert. Because suddenly, the game—or rather, the opponent—has changed.
“Which one is he?” I go shoulder to shoulder with Stacy as my eyes cut fire across the bar.
“The navy suit with Miss USA draped over him.”
Of course.
Of freakin’ course.
Chapter 2 June
As if he can feel my eyes on him, Ryan chooses that exact moment to look over his shoulder. The room tunnels as his gaze locks with mine. I inhale sharply, feeling punched in the gut. Gone is the boyishness of his face. Gone are the lanky arms and legs. It’s still Ryan staring me down, but Ryan the man. Ryan 2.0. Ryan maple glazed and covered in sprinkles.
When he realizes it’s me, he turns his body out to face me, leaning one elbow against the mahogany bar. The jacket of his slim navy suit protests at the strain and pulls tightly against his broad shoulders. He’s wearing a white dress shirt with the top button undone, showing a small triangle of skin that whispers he spends a good amount of time in the sun. His dark brown hair is mussed and wavy like tides in the ocean. Confidence drips off him and zaps all mine away.
Suddenly, my dress is too small. Too noticeable. I’m worried that the stick-on bra cups I’m wearing are going to peel off from all this sweat and plop down on the floor between my legs like I birthed them. Is red even my lip color? This was supposed to be my power outfit. My Trojan horse. If I looked hot and powerful, I’d feel hot and powerful inside. It’s not working, though, so I have no choice but to fake it.
I shoot out an invisible SOS to all the boss babes of the world and beg them to telepathically send me their strength. When Ryan’s mouth tips into a smirk, I don’t smile. When his dark eyes skim over me, I don’t flinch. And when he straightens to his full height, refastens the middle button of his suit jacket, and begins stalking toward me, I don’t drop to the floor and hide under the table. But I really, really want to.
“Oh, shoot! He’s coming over,” says Stacy. “Listen, there’s a lot you should know—”
“Shhhh,” I hiss back at her. “I have to use all my energy to look confident and irresistible.” I haven’t broken eye contact with Ryan yet, and although I don’t like that he just saw the frantic exchange between Stacy and me, I’m glad he knows I’m not running from him.
My stomach jumps into my throat as he gets close, and I think I might be sick. I hate that I was expecting Elmer Fudd, and instead, I’m getting Adonis. He’s closing in on me now, and so is the music, and the rapid pounding of my heart, and Stacy’s French manicure. I rip my arm from her dramatic grip and break eye contact with Ryan only long enough to give Stacy a look that says Don’t embarrass me! She recognizes the warning, because she’s given it to me often. It’s how we keep each other from becoming the next meme circulating the internet.
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.
