“There’s your buddy Tahoe.” She points, wiggling her eyebrows.

I ignore her (and him) but I shiver when I hear his voice, greeting Rachel’s husband and congratulating him.

Their laughs fill the room. Tahoe has this easy laugh, it’s almost contagious. It sounds delicious and it makes you want to have such a delicious time. I find myself smiling because of it when he heads over and greets Wynn, then he looks at me.

“Hey. What’s up with you?” He drops down beside me.

“Nothing’s up. What’s up with you?” I counter.

He looks really cozy in a draping, heavy-knitted ivory sweater, warm and inviting. That familiar irresistible grin lights his face as he looks at me. He leans back and folds his arms behind his head. “A whole lot of nothing.” He leans closer to me. “Why didn’t you come to my game?”

“Why you assume I’ll ever want to is amusing. That beard is getting long, by the way.”

“We’re in a bad streak.”

“Right. You loser.”

He laughs and caresses his jaw, smiling ruefully, the dimple showing. “I used to be luckier. I’ve still got what it takes though. If you’d only come watch, I’d be happy to show you.”

“I don’t cheer for losers.” I stick my tongue out at him.

“Tsk, Regina,” he drawls, “I would no longer be a loser if you came to cheer for me.”

He’s teasing, and we both laugh, but when our eyes connect again, a shock runs through my system.

Did you like that kiss even a fraction of how much I liked it?

I shake the thought aside and look at my martini on the coffee table. He’s a womanizer, he seduces women, this is what they see in him—confidence, a bit of an alpha nature, those wicked teasing words of his, that rebel streak, the laugh, the good times, the money he spends so easily, the lips, the body, I’m not even going to think about the rest but I can tell by the wear of his jeans that he’s as well-endowed there as everywhere else.

Don’t they say everything is bigger in Texas? Well, he was born there. Enough said.

The drawl is not always noticeable. I wonder what it is that makes it come out, like now?

Wynn heads over to hang with Rachel and Emmett, and we’re alone now and silent as we watch them.

“Babies, huh,” Tahoe says softly.

“Babies.”

He lifts my martini, sips from it then hands it over so I can take a sip as well.

We’re both thoughtful and puzzled. Stunned. We’re both at the moment you realize your closest friends are growing, leaping forward, charging ahead, and you’re still the same, you still aren’t really sure where to go from here and if you’re happy where you are at all. I can’t assume Tahoe is really happy, or why would he want to hang out with me?

“While the Saints play house and your friend Wynn over there maneuvers to get an engagement ring on her finger, you’re probably going to be stuck with me,” he says sardonically as he watches me set down my near-empty martini glass.

A smile appears on my lips and I guess it appeared quickly enough to amuse him, because his eyes start twinkling as he smiles at me too.

BURNING

A blizzard hits the city two weeks later, and I have to reschedule some of my house calls. I spend a lot of time in my apartment whenever I’m off work, watching movies with Trent.

By the time the blizzard stops a few days later, I’ve had a lot of things to mull through. I stare around my apartment when I arrive after a particularly exhausting day at work. My lonely apartment. Which I can no longer afford.

I feel unsatisfied and restless, but I don’t know why. It’s almost as if I can’t seem to find my place in the world. Rachel is expecting, Wynn has moved in with Emmett, while I’m barely in the beginning stages of a relationship, and about to have to leave my apartment.

So I decide I want to try to buy my own place rather than rent. Set down some roots. To do that, I need a boost of income, enough for me to save up for a small down payment. I really need to be earning more if I hope to buy my own place—one where I won’t be getting kicked out. Ever. I boot up the computer and spend all night searching Monster.com and the classifieds, and end up making a few queries.

Two days later, I get a call and land a huge gig.

The gig requires me to wear a black waitress uniform with a cute little white apron. I’m serving at some sort of investors’ get-together, where would-be investors can learn the how-to’s of investing.

I’m there early that evening, helping set up the kitchen and uncork the wine and fill the glasses. Soon a live band is playing in the main room, and groups of men are scattered throughout the space that’s big enough to sit two hundred guests. I walk past tables with a tray of wine glasses containing a crimson-red cabernet, heading toward the area my boss told me I would be responsible for.

I have never waitressed before and although my uniform fits me all wrong, I am completely focused on not spilling the tray of glasses as I head to the nearest table and start setting down drinks when a familiar voice reaches me.

“Gina?”

I cringe, but force myself to turn.

Paul is standing only feet away, sharply dressed in a tailored suit with cuff links and an expensive but simple tie clip, surrounded by similarly dressed executive types. And I stand here in an ill-fitting waitress outfit with an empty tray in my hand, instead of a toothbrush.

He runs his gaze down my body in disbelief. I can see it in his eyes: Wow, you’re a waitress?

He looks at my attire with quickly growing scorn, and I want to throw my tray at him while, at the same time, wanting to hide behind it. I guess I knew, deep down, that I’d one day bump into him again. I always imagined I would look successful, have an incredibly hot guy on my arm, and be wearing my best dress. I always imagined I’d lift my nose at him, like the scum that he is.