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“Thank you?” I say.

“You’re welcome!” She perks up from her sprawl on my bed. “Now. Hair and makeup.”

“You guys know I could totally handle this on my own, right?” I ask, even though them being here has helped ease any nerves I know I’d otherwise be feeling, and I’m more than grateful for their diversion.

“But it’s your first date with Greyson,” Mags offers with a smile.

“I don’t think I’d call it a date—”

“Oh, don’t be obtuse,” Sita cuts in.

“It’s totally a date,” Kat says with a smirk.

“But even if it was,” I roll my eyes playfully and continue, “It still wouldn’t be our first date. We did go out in high school, you know.”

“Girl, that doesn’t count,” Kat says.

“Why not?” I respond.

“Because it doesn’t!” Sita shouts. “You were inhigh school; you’re different people now!”

Touché. But Sita should probably slow her tequila roll, or I’m going to walk out of this house looking like a hot mess—if her overexuberant shouting has anything to say about it.

“We’ve hung out a few times now, though,” I push back against their words anyway, because this is what we do: banter, and laugh, and try to make light of the heavy.

“A bar with all of your friends and a Nintendo night with Charlee doesn’t count either. Now sit.” Sita gestures to the stool in front of my vanity.

“Yes, ma’am.” I shake my head with an amused smile and sit down in front of her, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “You sure you haven’t kicked back too many to see my face straight, though, Miss Feisty?”

“Psshhh. You know there’s no such thing astoo manydrinks in my world. But even still, I’ve only hadone.” She gathers a chunk of my dark hair and starts in with the straightener, using it to make the subtle, beachy waves that I love.

“Speaking of drinks!” Kat says. “You should definitely have one in your hand right now.” And her and Maggie quickly slip out of my room and into the kitchen, the sound of laughter and glasses clinking and my fridge opening and closing making its way down the hall.

“I’m just excited for you, babe. You deserve this,” Sita adds, her tone shifting from the playful of a moment ago to serious, and I catch the glimmer of genuine emotion in her eyes before she focuses her attention on my hair again.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling my own emotions suddenly knotting my throat.

Because here’s the thing: It’s not like I’ve been a saint or anything. I’ve dated plenty in the past eight years, some relationships lasting longer and turning more serious than others. But it always felt like there was something missing. And as much as I consciously kept myself from comparing one man to another, I could never silence the little voice in the back of my mind whispering that we didn’t quite fit together. Not as well as we could have.

But seeing Greyson again was like feeling that last, lost puzzle piece slide back into place. Different, and slightly warped by distance and time, but still an effortless match.

I think that’s why my feelings for him came flooding back the instant I saw him again at my coffee shop. There’s no escaping a connection like ours. I would know; I’ve spent the last eight years trying to convince myself otherwise.

Maggie and Kat stroll back into the room, drinks in each of their hands, and I’m pulled away from my thoughts. Kat passes one to Sita, and Maggie sets one in my lap.

“Thank you.” I curl my fingers around the glass, lifting it to my mouth, and take a sip of the crisp, cool mojito Mags managed to scrounge the ingredients together from my kitchen for. It’s amazing, and I’m reminded once again of one of the major benefits of having a bartender for a best friend.

I sigh into my cup,“So good,”and Maggie laughs.

“You’re welcome,” she says, leaning her hip against the counter in front of me, digging through my makeup bag. She finds whatever she was looking for and turns back towards me, makeup brush in hand. “Okay, close your eyes.”

I take another sip of my mojito and do what she asks, shutting out my view of the room.

It’s not long before the soft sweeps of eyeshadow across my eyelids and Sita’s fingers gliding through my hair make me relaxed enough to want to fall asleep. And I think I could, if only there weren’t this knotted ball of anticipation and excitement churning in my stomach.

Greyson’s texts unwittingly slip into my mind, fueling these feelings further, and a small, secret smile curves my lips.

He went less than twenty-four hours of waiting for my call before deciding to text me himself. A short, sweet, heartbeat inducing: