Page 8 of Hometown Touchdown
“Oh, I’m not bitter,” he says smoothly. “I let go of the past a long time ago.”
Liar. No man who’s trulylet go of the pastwould be this mean.
I want to scream.
“You’ve gotten rude,” I say. “What happened to the guy who used to bring me Cokes and leave notes in my locker?”
“He grew up.” His eyes lock on mine. “Too bad you weren’t here to see it.”
My heart pounds. My whole body shakes—frustration, adrenaline, hurt. “I never thought you would be this mean, Knox. It doesn’t look good on you.”
And then he says it. The nickname.
“Not mean. Just honest, Bunny.”
I freeze.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“What?” he asks, like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” His voice drops. “You used to love it. Especially when I—”
“Finish that sentence and I will end you.”
He grins, infuriating and smug, and opens his mouth again, looking me straight in the eyes and slowly begins, “Bunn—”
I grab his beer and throw it in his face.
The room erupts in a mix of gasps and laughter. Somewhere, a pool cue clatters to the floor. Knox just blinks, drenched in foam, and for a second I swear I see a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
I lean in, low and slow. “Next time, I’ll bring a pitcher.”
And then I turn on my heel and walk straight to the bar like I didn’t just reenact an episode ofReal Housewives: Cedar Falls Edition.
Kinsey’s behind the bar, gaping at me like I just pulled a live rabbit out of my purse. Sort of how she used to look at me when we were in high school, sitting in AP American History and I could rattle off dates at the drop of a hat.
“Oh my God,” she whispers as she hands me a dry towel. “That was so much better than a text.”
I wipe down my hands and slap the towel onto the bartop. “Thank goodness you’re here. Sorry I didn’t say hello before I had a minor meltdown.”
She reaches over the bar and grabs my hand. “No apologies needed. I should be thanking you for bringing some excitement to my shift. What can I get you?”
“One whiskey, neat. And maybe a mop.”
She laughs and pours it without question. “Welcome home, Brynn.”
I glance over my shoulder. Knox is still seated, dripping and glaring.
“Thanks,” I mutter, raising my glass.
Chapter four
Knox
Iturnontomystreet,headlights sweeping across the neat row of duplexes I built from the bones of my former life. The landscaping crew came through earlier today—I’ll get a better look in daylight, but from here, the flowerbeds are clean, the new sod holding up.
