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“I’m not losing my best friend,” he argues. “He’s just relocating. We’ll still be best friends, that won’t change. You really think he could find anyone better than me to be his best friend?”

Owen plasters on a large cheesy grin. Lifting his chin, the sun hits his short blonde hair illuminating him like a golden angel. Like he’s the ideal specimen for best friend material. He really is but we don’t tell him that, he’s already cocky enough as it is. In high school he was the captain of the ice hockey team and still plays occasionally with a local league when not working for his family’s construction company. It made him very popular.

Both he and his sister were the quintessential popular kids. I still have no idea how we managed to become friends. Izzy was a cheerleader and class VP. It even made sense for them to be friends with Warren the resident bad boy. Somehow jocks and popular girls always mix with the bad boys, but not usually with the introverted, quiet book nerd. I played exactly zero sports, participated in zero school activities, spent most afternoons in the library, and probably never would have attended a single school dance had it not been for Izzy dragging me to them.

Even after high school I didn’t do anything special, no college, no travel. I’ve been working at Gigi’s book shop, The Book Vault,for forever and a few years ago she retired and bequeathed it to me. It’s all I’ve ever known or wanted. Living in the apartment on the second floor above the shop, I have everything I need. Except someone to share it with. Someone I wished would have been Warren.

I’ve tried for years to get over these feelings for him, even dating other guys, but they never dwindled. Much to my dismay I think they only got stronger over the years.

My eyes drift back to Warren as Owen and Izzy bicker. Sadly, he does appear more upbeat as his time in Homer dwindles. He grabs a shirt and hops out of the boat onto the dock my grandpa built when he and Gigi first moved into this house decades ago. He makes it halfway to the house before stretching overhead to slip the black thermal over his head.

I watch over the rim of my glass and pretend to drink. Like always, my gaze follows the progression of his shirt down his naturally bronzed chest, abs and over the dark happy trail leading below his waistband. Hair the same dark brown as the shaggy locks on his head. His mochaccino light brown eyes glitter in the low dusky sunlight, the last we’ll have for a while.

My heart sinks when I notice the giant smile on his face as Owen hands over the box he brought. It’s deposited in his boat before he makes his way back up to shore, this time slipping a jacket on.

“Alright, who’s ready to party?” Owen cheers as they both arrive at our table.

I don’t feel the same enthusiasm as him and let it be known with a displeased frowny face. I was never a party girl and never will be. Every time we go to the bar together, I’m usually the one driving everyone else home or sneaking out early to go home and curl up next to my wood burning stove and read a book.

“Oh, come on Raelyn. You can’t be grumpy tonight,” Owen pouts.

“Sure, I can. Watch me,” I challenge him with a grin that holds absolutely no joy but plenty of defiance.

“Come on Bambi, you can’t be like that tonight.” Warren’s voice is like a balm to my charcoal heart. He’s been calling me Bambi since we were kids. I never knew why, but I like that I’m the only one he has a nickname for. He even got mad when Owen tried to call me Bambi once, claiming Owen wasn’t allowed to call me that, only he could. “It’s my going away party. No one is allowed to be a sour puss tonight.”

“Well, some of us aren’t happy you’re leaving,” I protest, crossing my arms over my chest. He’s heard this all before, but I feel it bears repeating.

“You know I’ve been planning this for years, Bambi. It’s not like it’s a surprise.”

I groan because that’s not even close to the reason why I’m not happy about him leaving. Yes, I’ve had years to prepare for this eventuality, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. I’m free to be as unhappy as I like.

“No more grumbling. Now get your overall clad ass up and let’s go.”

Warren circles the table and drags me up by my elbow. I, the mature twenty-six-year-old that I am, ragdoll in his hold, forcing him to hoist me up by the waist. It’s an age-old game we play, and I revel in every touch it allows me. He bands an arm around my middle and locks me in place with my back to his side. He’s a lot larger than me and holds me in the familiar position with ease.

“That’s not going to work today, Bambi. You’re coming, and you’re going to at least pretend to be happy and toast to my good fortune at finally escaping this town.”

I ignore his demands and continue to play a life-sized doll in his arms.

“Jesus you’re getting heavy,” he jokes, because I know for a fact, he can carry my hundred and fifty pounds just fine. He carries loads of fish twice my weight on a daily basis. “Okay, you can take over walking now Bambi,” he orders, but I ignore him.

He drags me dramatically down the porch towards the side yard where the cars are parked in the gravel driveway.

“You better put your feet down or I’m gonna drop you.”

He’s not going to drop me.

When I don’t respond he grumbles, and I feel him reach up and deftly pull the hair tie, holding my strawberry-blonde hair in a ponytail, off my head. Strands of copper fall forward blinding me. Just as I’m sure he intended, I instantly plant my feet on the ground and grab for my hair tie. If I can’t wrangle it out of his hand, I’ll never get it back. He likes stealing them and wearing them around his wrist, mocking me with his victory.

“Give it back Warren.”

“Not a chance. Not until we get toAnchor’s Bottom. Then you can have it back.”

Hmm. There’s a fifty-fifty chance he’s lying and I’m not sure if this is one of those times he’ll actually give it back. I stare at him dubiously, not sure I believe him. He slides the black elastic band around his wrist triumphantly, knowing I’ve never been able to remove it once it’s locked around his inked wrist.

“Fine. But you have to give it back when we get there.”

“Of course,” he says with a cocky grin, that’s equal parts sweet and smug. “Besides, I like it when you wear your hair down.”