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this.
    “You look good,” he says with a small smile that accentuates his strong cheekbones.
    “Thank you.” In my nervousness, my response comes out curt and forced. Up close, I notice faint purple crescents underneath his eyes. Stubble lines his jaw. Worn jeans cling to his toned frame, and a threadbare gray T-shirt hugs his sculpted chest and broad shoulders. His shift at the hospital must have recently ended.
    Before my mind has a chance to catch up with my mouth, I blurt, “You look tired.”
    He raises an eyebrow and clears his throat. “I had a late night and an early morning.”
    “Oh . . . right,” I say, glancing at his shoes—black canvas Chuck Taylor All Stars with scuffed toes and dirty laces. I remember shoes like those banging against the kitchen cabinets in my father’s house while Nick sat on the counter and taste-tested my recipes. I remember rubber soles squeaking as Nick chased me around the diner. I remember the feel of rough canvas moving up and down my calf while we made out in the backseat of Susanna—a restored 1969 mint-green Mercedes, named after my favorite James Taylor song, that was a gift from his grandfather.
    “How have you been?” Nick asks in a way that sounds sincere, though I imagine he’s only being polite.
    “Fine,” I say, biting my lip. “Just . . . tying up some loose ends for my father before I head back.”
    “I see.”
    “And you? The hospital?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I immediately wish there was a way I could pluck them from the air and put them back inside me.
    Nick rakes a hand through his dark brown hair. It’s the longest I’ve ever seen it but still just as untamed. “Things at the hospital are good,” he says. “Everything’s good. My father’s head of cardiology now.”
    “That’s . . . great,” I say. “Your mother must be so proud.”
    His lips form a thin line, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “Something like that.”
    “Oh! Lillie, dear, haven’t you heard?” Sullivan Grace interjects, pressing a delicate hand to her chest. I forgot she was standing beside me, and from the startled look on Nick’s face, I think he did, too. “Everyone’s all aflutter about—”
    Nick’s shoulders stiffen. “It’s fine, Ms. Hasell,” he says. “Lillie doesn’t care about any of that.”
    He’s right. I don’t care. Not about him and Baylor Medical, not about this Upper Whatever my father has volunteered me for, and not about managing Turner’s Greasy Spoons. I left Dallas to get away from all that.
    Sullivan Grace blinks, looking momentarily stunned before regaining her composure. “Right, right. Of course,” she says, then changes the subject to the god-awful baking competition again, yammering on about sponsor expectations and donation forms and judging guidelines and blah blah blah.
    “Ms. Hasell,” I cut in. “I’m flattered you want me to do this, but I really must be going. My father’s expecting me at his attorney’s office and—”
    “And nothing, dear,” she says with a steel-wool smile, deepening the crow’s feet around her eyes. “You’ll be at Junior League headquarters tomorrow morning. Eleven o’clock. This is for charity, after all. Are you really going to deny a desperate child the opportunity to receive a warm meal?”
    She doesn’t wait for me to answer.
    “Now you’re a bit behind the other contestants with practicing,” she continues, “but I’m sure you’ll catch up in no time. In fact, yesterday I was telling Paulette Bunny . . .”
    I tune her out, grateful she’s a talker.
    As I tuck a hair that’s escaped from my ponytail behind my ear, I watch as Nick’s eyes lock on my finger. My left ring finger—the one with the sparkling diamond on it. I meant to leave it in my pocket like I did yesterday, only this morning I must have slipped it on out of habit.
    Nick furrows his brow and tilts his head, examining the ring as if it’s a Magic 8 Ball giving him a clue he