A slow smile tips his lips on one side. Sly but charming, and he knows it, the same way he knows I just lied. Christian has changed a lot, in all the best ways. The youthful spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks has become the tan of a man who spends his free time with outdoor sports, probably golf or skiing. His wheat-colored hair glints with silver at the temples, but it’s still lush and thick. A few crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes when he smiles. The Christian Campbell of years ago had never been in need of a glow up, but he sure has grown up, and everything I’d swooned over when he was a teenage boy has been amplified now that he’s become a man.

“You have,” he says.

Butterflies.

Considering that it’s Christian, they’re probably moths, the kind with skulls on them. From that movie with Hannibal Lecter. Except, I guess the truth is, if Christian offers to eat me, I’m totally ready to let him.

He steps forward to press his lips to my cheek, his hands warm on my bared shoulders. His breath gusts over my skin, his voice rumbles directly into my ear, and I shudder as the fine hairs on the back of my neck rise with his words.

“You look amazing, Jewelann. Absolutely gorgeous. And still dressed all in black. You look better as a blonde, though. It suits you.”

I don’t mean to close my eyes, but I do, and I’m shot back all the way to our junior year when his words had been different but the sentiment the same. We’d been making out in my parents’ carriage house with the lights off so they wouldn’t know we were in there, his hands under my shirt but over my bra and his hard-on nudging my thigh for attention. Then I’d believed him, and a few years later he’d broken my heart. Crushed it, more than once. I have never forgiven him. I have never forgotten.

I believe him now, too, because he’s right. I have glowed up. Bigger breasts and hips, courtesy of pregnancy and time, but a flatter tummy I’ve worked hard to get and keep. Reverting to my natural color hides the incoming gray and takes much less work and money than maintaining regular visits to the salon, but the blonde does suit me. I do look amazing, at least on the outside.

Inside, I’m still the same ugly mess.

The moment between us lasts for … well, a moment, before his hand presses the small of my back. My eyes open. He brushes his lips on my cheek again, too close to my mouth. I’m the one who steps back. Not out of reach. Not that. But I do put some distance between us, and I make it obvious that it’s deliberate.

I wish the look in his eyes was regret, but Christian’s expression is too neutral to read. Pinned by his gaze, I can’t move. What does he remember about me? What does he think about who I have become?