I had his attention now. “You kissed me.”

I winced. “Yeah. My bad.”

“I waited for you, Jo,” he said, an edge to his voice. “I went to work for Granddad while you got this whole New York thing out of your system. When you came home this time, I figured you were finally ready to settle down. And instead—”

“I told you this summer we were through. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Come on.” He reached across the table, covering my damp hand on the beer bottle. “Jo, I love you.”

My chest hurt. “I love you, too, Trey. Just not . . . like that.”

“But you could. I know you could,” he insisted. “Maybe you don’t feel the way I do—yet. I can live with that.”

“But I can’t.”

“Things change. People change.”

“Not in Bunyan,” I said.

His eyes blazed. “That’s why I need you. I can’t stay old Mr. Laurence’s grandson for the rest of my life.”

“And I won’t be young Mr. Laurence’s wife.”

“So you said.” His tone was bitter.

I swallowed and looked away. My sister had joined the pool players, good ol’ boys in flannel shirts, feed caps, and various stages of drunk, playing a drinking game: miss a shot, take a shot. The tables around them were littered with empty beer bottles and dirty glasses. A tall, bearded dude at the bar said something to the bartender, who shook his head.

Trey followed my gaze and then turned back to me, his face tight. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

“Who?”

“The guy from the blog. You’re dumping me for the guy with the tattoos. That old cook, Wolfgang Fuck, whoever the hell he is. Wherever he came from.”

“His name is Eric Bhaer.” Distracted, I watched Amy toss back a shot while her new pals hollered encouragement. “And he’s not an old cook, he’s a talented, passionate, incredibly accomplished chef with his own restaurant. Anyway, that’s over.”

Trey’s fingers gripped mine against the cold glass. “Then there’s still a chance for us.”

I regarded him across the table, my oldest pal, my closest coconspirator. Who would I be without Trey? For years, we’d laughed and studied and played together, gotten each other in and out of trouble. But this was one stupid thing I wasn’t going to let myself get talked into.

I had loved three men in my life. My father, who made me feel smart and special. Trey, who made me feel upbeat and happy. And Eric, who had made me feel . . . whole. Maybe I didn’t have the stuff to make a real relationship work. To make it last. But I knew now how it should feel. And I didn’t feel that way with Trey.

Gently, I slid my hand away. “No.”

Something flickered in his face. He drew his breath. “Jo . . .”

A raucous cheer rose from the pool table.

Trey glanced over his shoulder. “Christ. What is she doing?”

Amy downed another shot and tossed her head, almost as if she were aware of his gaze. Stroking her cue, she sauntered to the table. At the bar, the bearded guy sighed and shook his head.