Seriously, what the hell is with this guy? He’s just consumed at least half a box of laxative, and he looks like he’s stepped straight off the cover of GQ magazine. He smiles down at me—oblivious to my confusion—his dimples pulling into his cheeks, and I wonder if perhaps laxative loses its effect if you cook it at 350 degrees.

“You’re late.” I look up at him before turning to lock the front door. I tuck my keys into my purse, flashing him another unimpressed once-over. “I’d given up on you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Harley sighs, and I can almost hear him roll his eyes from behind me. “I got stuck waiting for Conrad to start his shift. He was late. Again.” He continues talking about his sub-standard staff member, but I’m not really listening as we continue across the yard to his truck parked at the curb.

***

Pane E Vino is, hands down, the nicest restaurant in all of town. It’s at the fancy end of Main Street. The end with the expensive salon I’ve never been able to afford to go to, and the florist owned by Margot Winton, the wife of Harrington’s club pro. The stores on that side of Main Street cater for the wealthy Harrington Country Club crowd, the elite who flock to their holiday homes in Graceville in droves over the summer months because of its idyllic peacefulness, and small-town charm, far enough away from the hustle and bustle of the city where they earn their millions at their important jobs in the offices tucked away high in the sky-scraping buildings.

I’ve only ever come to Pane E Vino once before, on a terrible first date with a guy named Tom who I was only using to try to get over my breakup with Nash. It was a horrible experience. He spent the entire night comparing me to his ex-girlfriend who, by the way, I clearly didn’t come close to comparing to. Then he proceeded to show me her Instagram page, and suddenly began—very loudly—cussing her out for posting a photo of her and her new boyfriend, so much so, the entire restaurant was privy to his bitterness. Tom was clearly not over his ex, and now, two years later, here I am walking into the same damn restaurant to see my ex-boyfriend, with my fake boyfriend, and I’ve never related to anyone more.

Harley and I walk into the restaurant where the hostess greets us.

“Reservation under Nash Harris.” Harley smiles down at the young girl, and I almost laugh out loud when she openly swoons, gaping up at him as if he’s some sort of god. But that’s just it. In a town like Graceville, where almost everyone is obsessed with high school football, I suppose Harley Shaw is a god of sorts. He’ll always be the nation’s number-one high school quarterback, always be the varsity footballer who passed over four and a half thousand yards in his senior year, the player who broke the twenty-year county record for the forty-yard dash by almost two seconds.