He nods his head, not even bothering to turn and acknowledge me. Jesus Christ, this is uncomfortable. The tension in the air is so thick, you could slice it with a butter knife. After he’s grabbed his items, he turns and starts to walk away.

“Cash,” I mumble, grabbing onto his forearm—which, by the way, is tan and corded, his shirt rolled up to his elbows.

“What, Dean Philips?”

I get lost in his big, dark eyes. The gold specs that swim around inside the dark brown of his irises stand out so much, and he has the thickest, blackest lashes that fan around his doe eyes. He truly has the most beautiful features.

“Hello?!” he snaps, breaking the spell that’s hypnotizing me.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the one who said my name. And can you get your hand off me?”

“Sorry. I, uh, was just going to say that we have to work together, and I’d like it to be as easy as possible for both of us. No need to have things be tense or awkward.”

His gaze hardens as he lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “Oh, sure, teach. What’s awkward about you walking out on me years ago without so much as a goodbye? Definitely nothing tense about that. Don’t worry, though, Stone. The sight of you makes me sick, so you don’t have to worry about running into me more than necessary. You can just pretend I don’t exist. We both know you’re already a professional at that.”

He shrugs my hand off his arm, squaring his shoulders before storming off. I remain standing there, stunned, for several long moments, before I twist on my heels and leave the cafeteria sans food. I’ve lost my appetite.

I don’t get a single fucking thing done the rest of the afternoon. It flies by in a blur. Memories of soft sighs, rough touches, and late nights under the stars. By the time I walk out to my bike, it feels like I’ve had my ass kicked and I’m in serious need of a large glass of whiskey. I pull my helmet on, putting up the kickstand, and roar out of the parking lot toward my sister’s house on the other side of town.

With my helmet in my hand at my side, I pound on Molly’s door, impatiently waiting for her to let me in. The door swings open, and my sister’s husband, Julian, answers. He’s a large, gruff man, covered head to toe in tattoos, leather vest on, and a flat-billed trucker hat on his head.

“What’s up, man? Come in.” He steps aside, letting me pass through. It smells like Molly is making lasagna for dinner. My stomach rumbles loudly from my lack of lunch. “Molly told me about your predicament.”

“Yup. What are the fucking odds?”