Page 4

Wyatt

“You’re coming to the parade and the after-party out at Greencastle, right?” Tatum asks as we wrap up our shift at Sweet Tooth.

The bakery is quiet now, the scent of vanilla and warm sugar lingering in the air. I grab a rag, wiping down the counters while Tate leans against the register, watching me.

I started working here when I was sixteen, back when I was desperate to make money—not for myself, but for my mom.

She was already stretched thin as a single parent, trying to juggle my brother’s football expenses and raising a growing daughter on a tight budget. Every extra dollar counted.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I murmur, moving on to clean the espresso machines.

Tate crosses her arms, eyeing me closely.

“What do you mean you haven’t decided? We’ve been talking about homecoming for weeks.”

I shrug, avoiding her gaze. “I’m just not sure if I’m in the mood, ya know?”

The parade kicks off soon, and we’re closing early since the whole town will be lining the streets to watch. Honestly, I’m surprised Michelle doesn’t keep the bakery open. With all the foot traffic downtown, we could probably make good money.

But since the rest of the town shuts down to celebrate the Bulldogs, she follows suit.

I’d rather stay here, keep busy, and make money—anything but go home, plant myself on the couch, and sit with my own thoughts for another night.

“I guess I’m just not really feeling the school spirit.” I flick my wrist dismissively, hoping she drops it.

Tate gets it, though. She grew up in East Tennessee and is a lifelong fan of the Rixton Wolves, so she’s never been all-in on Braysen pride—except when it comes to supporting her boyfriend, Reed.

She doesn’t push, but I know her well enough to tell she’s already plotting a way to drag me out tonight anyway.

“When am I ever?” She giggles, nudging me with her elbow. “Even if you skip the parade, you could at least hit up the after-party, right?”

I toss the washcloth and our aprons into the dirty laundry bin, turning away as I busy myself with changing out the garbage.

She’s not going to let this go—I already know that much. One way or another, I’m going to Greencastle tonight. Even if she has to drag me there, kicking and screaming.

Tate doesn’t push any further, which I appreciate. The idea of being smothered by the crowd downtown is already making my skin itch.

Once we finish closing up, I head home, hoping a hot shower will help me muster up the energy for tonight.

It’s not that I don’t want to go.

I love a good party. Love getting lost in the music, dancing like no one’s watching.

That’s not the problem.

The problem is Greencastle is Colter and Zane’s territory.

And the last place I want to be? Anywhere near Zane Kinnick.

Still, I go through the motions, taming my unruly curls with a curling iron, spritzing some texturizing spray, and running my fingers through my hair to give it that perfectly messy look.

Because whether I like it or not, I’m going.

The temperature is expected to drop. And this party? It’s overlooking the beach, practically in the middle of nowhere. I’m not about to show up in boots and nice clothes, so I throw on a cropped crewneck sweatshirt, a pair of denim jeans, and my favorite sneakers—comfortable, casual, nothing that says I put in too much effort.

By the time Tate and Reed pull up outside my house, I already regret this decision.

That feeling only worsens when we pull into the open field at Greencastle, and Reed’s headlights sweep over the sea of cars crammed onto the grass.

This was a bad idea, a really bad idea.

Reed parks toward the back of the lot, keeping his Mustang well away from the chaos—probably to avoid some drunk idiot denting his baby.

Can’t blame him. Hell, if I were him, I wouldn’t have driven out here at all.

The bass-heavy music pulses from the party in the distance, and as I step out of the car, I exhale sharply, bracing myself for whatever the hell tonight brings.

“C’mon.” Tate tugs at my forearm, her grip firm but lighthearted. “It’s gonna be a good time. I promise.”

I arch a brow. “Just so you know, I’m holding you to that.”

She chuckles, looping her arm through mine as Reed leads us through the maze of parked cars toward the party.

I’m ready to breathe a sigh of relief, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I’ll make it through the night without running into him.

But then—

A familiar laugh slices through the air, and my entire body locks up.

How can a sound feel like a flashback?

I’ve heard that laughter more times than I can count. There was a time when making Zane Kinnick laugh felt like an achievement, something that kept me moving forward, especially after my dad died.

Now? Now, it just makes me want to run in the opposite direction.

“Wow,” Zane’s voice cuts through the crowd as we approach, smug and sharp. “I thought Tate was joking when she said you were actually coming.”

Zane steps between us, offering Reed a handshake before clapping him on the shoulder in one of those effortless bro hugs.

Then his attention shifts to me—his mouth curling into that damn smirk, the one that’s always been equal parts cocky and knowing.

“Let me guess—you got lost on your way to Keaton? Or did you finally cave and admit we throw better parties?”

I flash him a fake smile, tilting my head like I’m actually considering it.

“Don’t let it go to your head. I’m only here for the free beer and questionable decisions.”

Zane chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “And? What’s the verdict?”

I match his smirk, tilting my chin up slightly. “Still collecting data.”

His eyes flicker with amusement as I glance around, then meet his gaze again.

“But if it weren’t for Tate, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Ahh, so you got dragged out tonight.” He nods like he understands, but the glint in his eyes says otherwise. “Yet… here you are.”

I open my mouth to fire back, ready to wipe that smirk off his face, but that’s when I realize Tate is gone.

By the time I spot her again, she’s weaving through the crowd toward me, a red Solo cup in each hand, a smug grin spreading across her face.

I take the drink from her, lifting an eyebrow at Zane. “Only because I haven’t ruled out my escape plan yet.”

His lips twitch, amusement flickering in his eyes.

God, I hate this.

Hate how much this feels like old times—the ease, the rhythm, the way we fall into this push and pull like no time has passed at all.

It’s almost painful.

I tip the cup back and down my beer in one drink, fully prepared to use it as an excuse to leave—to put space between us before this conversation goes somewhere I don’t want it to.

Zane watches me, his gaze sharp and unreadable.

“So what’s worse? Putting up with me or admitting you’re enjoying yourself?”

I exhale slowly, rolling the empty cup between my fingers and giving myself a second to think.

“Tough call. I think I need another drink before I can give you an honest answer.”

Zane catches on immediately, turning toward the keg with that infuriating smirk like he’s daring me to run from him.

“I’ll take it as you’re having fun, but you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

I roll my eyes, lifting my cup like a toast before looking back at him.

“Take it however helps you sleep at night, Kinnick.”

Pushing past him, I let my shoulder brush his but he barely moves—solid as ever, like he expected it.

His teasing tone is threaded with something heavier.

“Careful. You sure you want to play this game with me, firecracker?”

I freeze. My fingers tighten around the empty cup, grip just a little too firm. It’s been years since he called me that nickname. Since the last time we were anything other than this.

The pause is small—barely noticeable—but he catches it.

I know he does.

Still, I force a smirk, tilting my head just enough to meet his gaze over my shoulder.

“Pretty sure I lost the second you started talking.”

Then I turn and walk away, pretending my pulse isn’t hammering in my throat. Pretending it didn’t affect me at all.

Tate catches up beside me, slightly breathless. “What the heck was that about?”

I blink, feigning innocence. “What?”

She gives me an unimpressed look. “Don’t ‘what’ me. Whatever that was between you and Zane.”

I wave her off, taking a slow sip of my drink. “Oh, you mean the usual? He talks, I tolerate it, and somehow, we both survive?”

Tate scoffs. “Right. Because normal ‘tolerating’ includes the kind of eye contact that could melt steel.”

I roll my eyes, forcing out a laugh that doesn’t quite reach my chest. “Please. If I wanted to leave scorch marks, he’d feel it by now.”

Her brow lifts, not the least bit convinced. “And the nickname?”

My grip tightens around my cup, fingers pressing into the plastic. I keep my voice smooth and detached.

“It was nothing.”

Tate doesn’t buy it. Not even a little.

“Sure didn’t look like nothing.”

I exhale; the tension still coiled in my chest.

“Tate, drop it. Please,” I murmur, practically begging her to let it go.

She smirks, nudging me with her elbow. “Fine. For now. But if you start spontaneously combusting later, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”