Page 4 of Love You Too

He smiles. Dammit, there go the dimples and those perfect teeth.

“I play for the Otters now. I’m a local. Sort of.”

I know enough about hockey to know that means the Oakland Otters, which are just an hour from here. I nod, trying for an air of nonchalance but probably looking like a woozy fangirl instead.

Well, shit.

You know when you want to act like an adult and let the guy who broke your heart see that you’re completely over him? Yeah. I want to do that, really, I do. Because Iamover Ren. I have been for years. I no longer think about him. I barely notice whensome picture comes across my social media feed of Ren cavorting with yet another beautiful woman. And when a hockey game is on at the Dark Horse, I barely give it a passing glance.

I am over him. Over. Him.

And yet…seeing him again jars my senses and roils my stomach with something unexpected. My heart starts beating like an amateur drummer in a slick marching band. Loud, discordant thumps that surely can be heard two stadiums away. My face heats with embarrassment—that has to be what it is—because he found me disheveled and flat on my ass, and he looks, well, perfect.

Why does the one man who I planned to never see again have to be so freakin’ beautiful? No, not beautiful. Sinfully, undisputedly gorgeous.

And as good as he looks, that’s how angry I suddenly feel. The hurt I had over the way we ended comes roaring back like an untamed waterfall, drowning out any kindness toward his adorable dog. I do not have a warm feeling for Dominick Renaldi, not anymore. I have nothing to say to him now.

Yet here he is, looking at me with that amused smirky smile I used to find so damn cute. I feel my hackles raise and my fists ball defensively. I’ve never slugged a man, but I’d have no problem making Ren the first. It’s been ten years coming and it would feel oh so good.

College sweethearts. Young love. Impossible choices. We were hot and passionate for a full year before the wheels came off. Life happened. Real-world factors came into play, and our romance couldn’t survive it. Things went from blissful to finished so quickly that I had whiplash.

I realized in hindsight that we never really had a chance. Before the end of his senior year, he was recruited by a Canadian hockey team and missed graduation because he needed to replace an injured player immediately. I was still a sophomore, stillundeclared and uncertain about what I wanted to do with my education or my life.

I offered to follow him to Canada. That’s how stupid in loveIwas. But he cured me of that in one fell swoop by dumping me abruptly and leaving the country for his new career.

So I finished college, discovered a love for design and renovation, and figured out I had talents that far outweighed being a puck bunny. I moved to Napa to help out at Buttercup Hill, and here I am, eight years later. Wiser, busier, career-focused. Far too rooted in my feminist ideals to follow anyone anywhere.

My career is my identity, and I wouldn’t follow a guy like Ren across the room, let alone across the country. He taught me not to fall for a man whose career is his one true love, and I’ll never forget that lesson. And while my heart and mind are content never seeing or speaking to this man again, my treacherous body can’t decide whether to slap him dramatically across the jaw, telenovela-style, or grab that pretty face and kiss him silly, showing him what he’s missed out on for all these years.

All of these thoughts hurtle toward me at lightspeed. Just seeing him in front of me produces a rip inside my chest. The same feeling of my heart deflating that I felt all those years ago, but now it’s tinged with irritation that he’s here. In Napa. My territory. With a dog who’s clearly as poorly behaved as him.

“Trix, are you okay?” His warm brown eyes are tinged with concern. His lips tip downward as he surveys me with something akin to sympathy, and I hate that he seems to pity me. The frustration turns to anger in my veins, giving me an unquenchable feeling of…

Nope.

I should walk away. Quickly. Before I say something I’ll regret.

Gathering my stack of materials from the ground, my muffin-less brain goes rogue, and I mutter the one thing that would make me okay. “No. I need to get laid.”

CHAPTER 2

Ren

“W-what?”I can’t have heard her correctly.

Beatrix looks as shocked as I feel at what she just said. Her face goes peony pink, cheeks hotter than the pavement, and her pale blue eyes round into lakes.

“Nothing.”

“Not nothing. You just?—”

“No, I didn’t,” she insists, fanning the air around us as if to dissipate the words. Or cool her skin.

“You—”

“No. I didn’t. Let’s just move on.”

“O-kay…” I’m not sure I can do that, not sure I want to do that. But I also don’t want to make her so uncomfortable that she runs off, so I grudgingly let it go. For now.

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