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Without warning, Tess reaches up and gives my ear a sharp tug—something she does when she thinks I’m purposely checking out on her. She knows I can carry on a full-blown, in-depth conversation and still be a million miles away from the person I’m having it with. “Stay with me.”
“I’m right here,” I tell her, pushing her hand away. “I’m okay.”
Her face softens as she lets her hand drop to her side. “No, you’re not.”
“Sure I am.” I flash her another grin before chucking my crooked finger under her tipped chin. “Would I lie to you?”
“Yes,” Tess says quickly, her hazel eye flashing. “About this, you’d lie to your own mother.”
“I. Am. Fine.” To prove it, I snag a bottle of Jameson out of the well and yank the speed pourer out of its neck. “Have fun with Mr. Personality,” I say, shooting a look at Declan over my shoulder.
Suspicion morphs into worry in the blink of an eye. “Where are you going?”
“Being cooped up back here with these two Sunday school teachers makes me itchy,” I tell her, taking a long pull from the bottle in my hand before skirting my way around her and from behind the bar. “I’m taking a walk.”
“Con—”
She says something but whatever it is gets pushed back by the crowd that swallows me. I shoulder my way through it, liking the way it parts for me. The way women stop and look, trying to catch my eye. The way guys try to avoid it. They’re little more than impressions to me, faded ghosts, but I smile, and nod like I can’t see right through them. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it.
I’m halfway across the bar, not sure where I’m going or what’ll happen when I get there when I see her from the corner of my eye—just a flash but I know it’s her.
Henley.
Turning, I catch sight of her, standing next to the jukebox. She’s solid. Shines like a beacon--a million times brighter than anything that surrounds her. Dark, slim-fit jeans, tucked into a pair of knee-high leather boots. Loose silk blouse the color of spring grass. Minimal makeup. Arrow-straight hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. One hand tucked behind her back while the other raises a hand to turn one of the doorknob-sized diamonds in her ears. It’s the only indication she gives that she sees me. Knows I’m here.
I mean to walk right past her without so much as a backward glance but that’s not what happens. I can feel myself being pulled toward her against my will. It’s not until I’m practically standing on top of her that I realize she isn’t alone.
Stopping a few feet away from her, I pretend to be amused by the complete ineptitude of the fuckwit trying to pick her up, but really, I’m waiting for him to notice me and pop off so I can smash my half-empty bottle of whiskey over his head. The guy is standing close to her—so close she has to tilt her head to look him in the eye. Clean jeans. Navy sweater vest over a color-coordinated oxford. Goddamned loafers. Clean-shaven jaw, square enough to make mine clench. Good-looking in a bland, forgettable way that reminds me of her fiancé. The guy she’s been with since she left Boston.
Left me.
You don’t belong here, Gilroy, and she doesn’t belong to you. Not anymore.
“... just started my third year at Harvard Law. I can’t decide between real estate or corporate. One of my father got me an interview for a summer internship at one of the big firms downtown—”
“Which one?” I say it loud, forcing them both to acknowledge my presence. As soon as she hears my voice, Henley lets her gaze dart in my direction while the pick-up artist looks me up and down.
“Excuse me?” he says, eyes narrowed, taking it all in. The worn jeans. The scuffed steel-toes. The tattoos. The three-day beard I still haven’t made time to scrape off. He thinks he’s looking at some local lowlife. Someone who doesn’t matter. He’s not wrong.
I grin at him because attitude or not, the instant his gaze finds me standing a few feet away, he starts to fight off the panic in a bid to hold on to his rapidly failing manhood. I’m about four inches taller, and while we’re probably around the same weight, he’s soft. Soft hands. Soft muscles. “I said, which one?” Lifting the bottle to my mouth, I take a long drink, holding Henley’s gaze. She doesn’t look panicked. She looks embarrassed. Like she regrets me. Another knife in my gut but I hold on to it. Use it to push myself away from her. Remind myself that this is not Henley.
Not my Henley.
Not anymore.
“Leonard, Howard, and Hayes.” He narrows his gaze on me when I start to laugh. “Did I say something funny?”
I don’t answer him, I just lower the bottle, shifting my grip around its neck to assure a good swing.
Henley doesn’t look embarrassed anymore. She looks like she knows exactly what I’m thinking about doing. “Dalton, this is my friend, Conner.” She reaches over and places a hand on his arm, and the flash nearly blinds me. She’s wearing her engagement ring again. Seeing it on her finger is like a knife in my gut that loosens my grip on the bottle. I have to consciously tighten my fingers around it to keep it from slipping. “Conner this is Dalton. We went to school together at—”
“Trinity,” I say, letting my gaze skate over her without catching hold when I name the exclusive private school she graduated from after she left Boston. “I’m sure that pedigree came in handy when it was time to apply to Sara Lawrence.” I don’t want to see her face when she realizes I’ve basically been stalking her for the past eight years.
“Conner actually graduated from Harvard Law—2010, wasn’t it?” She smiles at me, tilting her head slightly. “It’s a little more impressive when you factor in the dual doctorates he earned from MIT that same year. Cognitive neuroscience and advanced physics—string theory.”
“Superstring, actually—” I flash her a quick smile. “and despite the doctorate, it’s more of hobby.”
Her smile sharpens just a tad. “He also holds about a half-dozen master’s degrees in everything ranging from Celtic languages and literature to Business analytics.”