I don’t know what’s happening to me. I feel hot and achy and—it’s the alcohol, I assure myself. It has to be. Because Garrett and I agreed that we’re just friends.
“Dean’s enjoying himself,” I comment, mostly because I’m desperate for a distraction from my out-of-control hormones.
Garrett follows my gaze toward the back booth, where Dean is sandwiched between two blondes who are very eagerly nibbling on his neck. “Yeah. Guess so.”
There’s a faraway look in his gray eyes. His absent tone makes it clear he’s not interested in making conversation, so I fall silent and try hard not to let his overpowering masculinity affect me.
But every time his cheek grazes my face, the goose bumps get worse. And every time his breath puffs on my jaw, a flurry of shivers skitters through me. The heat of his body sears into me, his scent surrounds me, and I’m excruciatingly aware of his warm hand clutching mine. Before I can stop myself, I rub my thumb over the center of his palm.
Garrett’s breath hitches.
Yep, it has to be the alcohol. There’s no other explanation for the sensations coursing through my body. The ache in my breasts, the tight clenching of my thighs and the strange emptiness in my core.
When the song ends, I exhale a relieved breath and take a much-needed step back.
“Thanks for the dance,” Garrett mumbles.
I might be tipsy, but I’m not drunk, and I instantly pick up on the sadness radiating from his broad chest.
“Hey,” I say in concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” His throat dips as he swallows. “It’s just…that song…”
“What about it?”
“Brings back memories, that’s all.” He pauses for so long I don’t think he’s going to continue, but then he does. “It was my mom’s favorite song. They played it at her funeral.”
My breath catches in surprise. “Oh. Oh, Garrett, I’m sorry.”
He shrugs as if he has no care in the world.
“Garrett…”
“Look, it was either dance to it, or bawl my eyes out, okay? So yeah, thanks for the dance.” He sidesteps me as I reach for his arm. “I’ve gotta take a leak. Will you be okay here for a few minutes?”
“Yeah, but—”
He stalks off before I can finish.
I watch him go, battling a wave of sorrow that constricts my throat. I’m torn as I stand there staring at his retreating back. I want to go after him and force him to talk about it.
No, I should go after him.
I square my shoulders and hurry forward—only to freeze as I come face to face with my ex-boyfriend.
“Devon!” I squeak.
“Hannah…hey.” Devon is visibly uncomfortable as our gazes lock.
It takes me a second to register that he’s not alone. A tall, pretty redhead stands beside him…and they’re holding hands.
My pulse speeds up because I haven’t seen Devon since we broke up last winter. He’s a political science major, so we’re not in any of the same classes, and our social circles don’t usually intersect. We probably wouldn’t have even met if Allie hadn’t dragged me to that concert in Boston last year. It was a small venue, just a few local bands playing, and Devon happened to be the drummer in one of the bands. We spent the whole night talking, discovered that we both went to Briar, and he ended up driving Allie and me back to campus that night.
After that, he and I were inseparable. We were together for eight months, and I was wildly and unequivocally in love with him. He told me he loved me, too, but after he dumped me, a part of me wondered if maybe he’d only been with me out of pity.