I nod to acknowledge the break in the conversation and glance around again, recognizing several other people here tonight.
Green Valley is a smallish town in North Carolina, less than an hour away from Charlotte. It’s a weird place because it was built up around two country clubs and a marina on a large boating lake. Gradually the well-to-do communities became a township, and so its population is disproportionately wealthy.
My dad is a corporate executive in Charlotte, and my mother has a cushy position with an event planner. Not doing any of the actual grunt work, of course. She mostly gets paid for socializing. Growing up, we always had a big house with a swimming pool, nice cars, and fancy vacations. But in terms of relative wealth among my circle of friends, my family was just below the middle. More than half my friends had families richer than us.
It’s not a normal community, and maybe for that reason, a large percentage of the kids who grow up here end up moving back. That’s what I did after college. It’s what Joey did after law school. And it’s what Rafe did.
So it’s not surprising I know a lot of the people here this evening—at least well enough to say hi to.
Lincoln serves beers to the newcomers, and I focus on avoiding Rafe’s eyes.
When Lincoln comes back, he picks up our conversation as if it never paused. “Here’s something that may or may not help. My wife is kind of like you.”
I blink, shocked at that comment. His wife is Summer Cray Wilson. She’s the orphaned heiress of a huge fortune. A pretty, quiet, elegant blonde. She’s not anyone I’d ever compare myself to. “What? She is not.”
“Yes, she is. She takes the world seriously like you do. She does her best to do a good job and meet all her responsibilities. She’s smart and deep and keeps most of her thoughts to herself, just like you.”
My eyes are way too big. “But she’s…” I can’t finish the sentence. I’m not sure what I’d say anyway. Summer’s life seems impossibly distant from mine, and she’s married to the most charming, handsome man I’ve ever known. A man who openly adores her.
I’ll never be her.
He cocks an eyebrow at me. “She’s what?”
“Nothing. She’s just great. And I never thought I was like her.”
“Well, you are. And here’s the thing. She used to know a guy who would drive her crazy. He’d always hang around and make obnoxious comments and get on her nerves. Once he made her so angry she actually slapped him.”
My mouth is hanging open. “Summer did?”
Lincoln laughs softly, something soft and fond in his eyes that makes me irrationally jealous. Not for Lincoln himself. But for a man who’d feel for me what he obviously feels for Summer. “Yes. She did. I’m telling you, he was the only man in the world who ever fired her up that way. It was completely uncharacteristic of her.”
“So what happened with him? How did she get rid of him?” Call me clueless, but I have absolutely no idea.
He leans over, his eyes glinting. “She married him.”
“Wh-what?” It takes a minute for me to catch up. I’m usually a fairly quick thinker, but I’ve been totally on the wrong track with this, exactly as Lincoln intended.
“She could have had anyone she wanted. Much better, smarter, more serious men who were much more similar to her. But that’s not what she needed. She needed someone who would get her going. Bring out a side of herself that no one else could. She’s always been a good person—just like you are. A person who makes wise, thoughtful decisions. But she wanted to be more than that. She wanted to have fun sometimes. Be… free. And I’m the one who lets her do that.”
“So what’s your point? It can’t be that Rafe… that I secretly want Rafe to…” I almost choke on the words. On the thought.
Lincoln takes a couple of steps back, laughing openly and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, I’m not saying anything like that. I’m simply telling you about my wife.”
I scowl at him because he’s being obnoxious on purpose and leaving the conversation before I can get my say in. But I’m not really angry with him. Or even particularly annoyed.
I’m unsettled. And confused. And strangely mortified.
Because it’s not the same. It’s not.
Maybe it looks similar from the outside, but he doesn’t know the real situation between Rafe and me.
There’s absolutely no way I could fall for a guy who drives me as crazy as Rafe does.
It’s not that I’ve never been attracted to him. Of course I have. I thought he was the cutest boy in my grade all through elementary school, and in middle school I would occasionally entertain silly daydreams about him miraculously becoming nice and deciding that he liked me. By high school, I’d given up all such fantasies, so when he asked me to prom I knew it was a joke. Some sort of wager with his friends. I knew it wasn’t real even before I heard him laughing with them about it afterwards.
He's always been hot. And attractive to me in other ways. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s just as smart as I am, and he’s got a genuinely warm smile and depths of kindness that surprise people.
But he never shows me that side. Even when he’s pretending to be nice to me—like asking me to go to the movies with him in college or asking me to get coffee in the past few years, he’s always done it laughingly, so I knew never to take it seriously.
All these years, and it’s never changed. I’m not foolish enough to fall in love with him. I’ve always been too smart for that.
As if my thoughts summoned him, I’m suddenly aware of a presence behind me. I don’t turn around even though every instinct inside me is screaming at me to look.
Rafe says in his low, amused drawl, “Drinking alone?”
I turn my head and slant a cool look at him, managing to refrain from responding in words. No use to have another silly argument tonight.
“Something happen?” He ignores my attempt to ignore him and moves to the stool beside me. “Did your dream guy dump you or something?”
I gasp. It’s soft and short, but I can’t help the quick intake of breath. How the hell does he know?
Rafe blinks. “He did? He really dumped you?” His obvious surprise proves it was a random guess and not from the gossip that’s going around.
So that makes me feel a little better.
“What happened?” he asks, waving toward Lincoln to ask for another beer. He gestures at my glass. “You want another of those?”
“No, I’m fine. I’m waiting for Joey.”
“So what happened?”
“What makes you think I’d tell you?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because we’re not friends and it’s personal.”
“Did he break your heart?” His expression is so often amused and laid-back that I’m genuinely surprised by the sharp scrutiny with which he briefly searches my face. “No, he didn’t.”
“You have no way of knowing that.”
“Yes, I do. I could see it.”
“No, you couldn’t—”
“Yes, I could. You think I don’t know you after all these years and all these arguments?”