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on Dusty not buying Jake a drink.
    Dressed down from yesterday, Jake’s in twill workpants and a well-worn unbuttoned red flannel over a heavy dark sweater. His hair is slightly askew, like he just rolled out of bed ten minutes ago. When his eyes connect with mine, they brighten only long enough for him to register Dusty, the pose of our bodies, my hand over his. Then Jake turns away to scan the room, and before I can shut my slackened jaw to avoid any flies getting in there, he’s raising one hand in greeting to someone across the room.
    Dusty doesn’t seem to have noticed Jake, or if he did, there isn’t any recognition on his part. Because Dusty was a year ahead of us in school and their paths rarely crossed in a good way, Dusty certainly wouldn’t recognize Jake now, unless he really bothered to look. When Dusty pulls his hand back from under mine and makes his way back to his bar stool, I can’t decide whether I want to stomp over to Jake’s table and demand to know what he is still doing here or just leave these drinks on the bar top and scuttle out the door.
    You know what? Hell, no. My scurrying away is not happening. He’s the one who left without a word. He’s the one who showed up here and had the audacity to call me “Shoelace” like he used to, as if it hasn’t been ten freaking years since we last spoke. This is my town. I still live here and he doesn’t. If anything, I might rather enjoy the opportunity to let Jake Holt see exactly what he left behind. Not the heartbroken seventeen-year-old me—but the grown-up, has-her-act-together, and wearing-a-cute-outfit-with-wellies version of me. And, if he happens to fall all over himself with regret at the sight? Well, that would just be a bonus.
    With that idea in mind, I straighten my spine, pull my shoulders back, and grab the drinks to make my way back to the booth.
    Once I’ve taken my seat and managed a few gulps of my drink, I scan the room, trying for as much nonchalance as possible. Jake’s across the way, sitting in a booth where he can see me clearly, paying only cursory attention to the slightly familiar man he’s met up with because every few seconds Jake’s eyes flicker to mine. And as much as I want to stifle the excited flutter that comes with the fact he is quite obviously watching me, it happens each time our gazes cross.
    I remind myself that the goal is for Jake to feel the fluttering. All while I remain cool and composed, making it obvious that I’m not looking for anything or anyone. Which is true. I stopped trying so hard to find a man years ago, convinced that when it was right, the perfect man would come knocking on my door. And zooming into town on a private jet because my brother-in-law needed a ride probably doesn’t count as opportunity knocking. Even if opening my door to find a man like Jake standing there—all ruggedly enticing—seems like the kind of opportunity I’d like to investigate. Thoroughly. For as long as it takes to traverse all the proportions of his new not-gangly body. Who knows how long that might take? Days, I’m sure.
    No. Retreat, Lacey. You are an independent, kick-ass, take-care-of-yourself kind of gal now. Do not play this game with that man. Just consider him some sort of optical illusion, the ghost of boyfriends past or something.
    Sandi’s talking. I can hear her voice, but the words are running together. Only the fact I know her so well means I’m able to offer the appropriate verbal mumblings to make it seem as if I’m really listening. But because I’m evidently weak, and despite all of my internal ramblings, when Jake looks my way again, it’s on. I give in, and a gripping match of eye-flirtery and temptation between two worthy opponents ensues.
    He looks, I look away. I look, he sees, and the side of his mouth hitches up in faint acknowledgment. We both look, locking gazes until someone gives.