Page 57 of That Reunited Feeling

But I don’t feel like I belong here either. Yes, I belong with these people. But this isn’t my home.

And any life I live while I’m here is just a fantasy.

But that fantasy is pretty fucking powerful. As great as it is to see the guys, my heart and my mind are pulled northward, wondering what Hannah and Dylan are up to in their little guest suite.

“Hey.” I waggle my empty glass at my brother. “I thought this place was a pub.”

16

HANNAH

“T

hey’re all pretty much as you’d remember them,” Tom says, flicking the turn signal of Max’s Lexus before heading onto the road that leads into Blythewell.

“Max still thinks he’s in charge of everyone, Connor still looks like he needs a razor and a comb, Elliot still takes pride in out-mathing everyone, and Walker is still solid and reliable and making fucking excellent beer. They just all have a lot more money now.”

“Yeah, it seemed that way when they were all here for Christmas—apart from Max and Polly, with them being off on their honeymoon. But I didn’t speak with them much. I tried to stay out of the way and helped with just the clearing up.” Mainly because I was afraid they’d bring up Tom and I wouldn’t know what to say. “I think it’s amazing what you all did for Maggie and Jim. Buying that beautiful house, I mean.”

“It certainly wasn’t beautiful when we got it. It’d been abandoned for years. There was even a little tree growing through the cracks in the living room floor.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the old photos hanging on the wall up the staircase. But you’d never know now.”

“Max and Connor took care of the renovations. Connor’s great at all that design stuff.”

I shift in the seat and pull my jacket closer around me. Because I live in T-shirts and sweats a lot of the time, this V-neck feels uncomfortably low now that I’m sitting down. As I stood in front of the mirror, it looked cute with these jeans. I didn’t have time to rethink it because I’d foolishly told Maggie that Dylan would head to the main house around fifteen minutes before Tom showed up. Totally should have said thirty because I ended up in a sweaty scramble to change out of my leggings and hoodie and throw on some makeup.

It hadn’t occurred to me when I made the plan for Dylan to spend the evening with Maggie and Jim that I wouldn’t be able to get changed until he left or else he’d want to know why I was getting dressed up for a “work meeting.”

I barely think about what I wear these days, but like a teenager going on their first date, for the last forty-eight hours I’ve thought of little else—apart from the kissing. And the grabbing. And the hot breath. And the woodsy aroma of Tom’s skin that matches the scent of his hair. And the fact that I’ve agreed to Rachel’s whole Bridge Person idea.

I’ve never had a reckless relationship like this in my life, one where I’m in it just for the short-term fun and lust and sex.

Holy shit, I’m going to have sex with Tom. Will it be tonight?

I blew the cobwebs off my only set of lacy underwear just in case.

And how the hell I didn’t rip off his jeans with my teeth, like a starving lioness on a denim-only diet, the second I opened the door to him, I have no idea.

The sight of him there, lit up by the porch lamp, in the dark gray wool coat that makes me want to hang onto his broad shoulders till the end of time…Jeeesus.

When he pushed his hair back with those sexy ringed fingers and looked at me withthatlook—the one that makes his eyes sparkle and his lips curl up at one corner—my lady bits held a fireworks party, one made up primarily of the rockets that explode so high in the sky they make you feel dizzy.

That look made me want to jump at him, throw my arms around his neck, wrap my legs around his waist, and ask him to take me for the ride of my life.

But instead, I stood motionless and said, “Hi.”

Then he stepped toward me and planted a soft kiss on my lips, a kiss that turned into a tongue tease that tossed gasoline on the fireworks in my pants. Then he pulled away and held out his hand for me to take it.

If anyone had ever told me that such a simple gesture could make my heart sing, my brain whirl, and my legs want to throw themselves up in the air so much, I would have told them they were bonkers.

And now here I am, damp lacy underwear and all, with Tom driving me to our first date in seventeen years.

What a turn life can take.

At the intersection with The Frisky Ferret pub, Tom turns left onto Main Street.

“When will you tell me where we’re going?” I ask.

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