The barista at Charleston Coffee Traders flirted with me this morning, and I barely batted an eye. He was cute. But attraction is one thing, chemistry is another. Gray and I have buckets of both, and it feels combustible.

I’m rooting through the fridge for the container of hummus when I hear the door open again, and footsteps near.

Was I hoping he’d follow me inside? Yes.

I don’t turn to confirm it’s him, but no one else would approach me silently. Big, masculine hands settle on my hips. I sway, resisting the urge to melt back against him. The pink wrap dress I settled on shifts as his hands move to my waist. Pulsing tingles of heat shoot through me. Goose bumps pebble on my skin, both from his light touch and the cold air emanating from the fridge. I should probably shut the door, but I can’t seem to move.

“You took a long time to get ready.” His warm breath skates across my skin.

“I had trouble deciding what to wear,” I admit.

“I like the dress.”

I don’t know if it’s part of his compliment game, but I no longer need a shovel or an exploding agent to unearth one—it appears.

“I meant, underneath.”

He chuckles, but it comes out more pained than amused. “Fuck, Evie.”

I want to ask if it’s been as long for him as it’s been for me, but that’s not really a conversation I want to get into with our friends and my brother right outside.

“You didn’t call this week,” I whisper instead.

“I know. I was trying…not to make this harder.”

I turn to face him, finally shutting the fridge. “What does that mean?”

“You know what.”

I shake my head. “You—”

The door to the backyard opens, and Sloane steps inside. “Evie?”

There’s something off in her tone, something hesitant.

I tear my gaze from Gray’s and glance at her. “Yeah?”

“Uh, Logan is here to see you.”

“What?” I blink at her blankly, like I’ve never heard the name before.

Sloane is still talking, mumbling something about a medical conference and knowing an address, but I’m no longer listening. I leave the hummus on the counter and head outside. Sure enough, Logan Fitzgerald is standing in my backyard, shooting the shit with my brother. His blond hair has grown from the crew cut length he kept it at throughout our relationship. Aside from that, he looks the exact same as he did at our med school graduation—the last time I saw him. The last time I thought I’d ever see him.

“Logan.” I approach them. “Um, wow. Hi.”

“Hey, Evie.” He gives me a warm smile and a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too,” I reply automatically. “Uh, what are you doing here?”