room where Dean says the school’s choir will sing Christmas carols at the end of the night. The streetlamps outside are hung with wreaths and bows, and everywhere I look, people are laughing and chatting.
I knew Lakeside was a beautiful town . . . but this is different. It’s picturesque, stunning—something straight out of Norman Rockwell—as if neighborly warmth and holiday cheer suffuse the very air we’re breathing. Jason disappears into a group of high schoolers soon after we get there, and Dean holds my hand, leading me along the tables inside.
“You could set up a table here next year,” Dean suggests. “Your stuff would sell like crazy.”
“I did a whole video series last year about making homemade Christmas gifts. They were good gifts too, nothing chintzy. It might be fun to do something like that—a craft tutorial.”
We run into Garrett and Callie Daniels, with little Will bouncing between them. Callie and I compare bellies—she’s got a slight lead on me, but I’m catching up. Dean’s told me a lot about Garrett—how he’s like a brother to him, how growing up his house was a second home.
So it feels nice when Garrett smiles and says, “Good to finally meet you, Lainey. I’ve heard great things about you.”
I meet more people from around town. Most seem curious, in a friendly way, about the woman who’s apparently locked down Lakeside’s legendary Coach Walker.
Most come right up and introduce themselves.
There’s Lara Simmons, who dated Dean their senior year and still has their prom picture framed in her living room.
There’s Debbie Christianson who went out with Dean junior year, before catching him having sex with her best friend, in her bed. She can laugh about it now.
There’s Peggy Gallow who went out with Dean freshmen year of college and, according to her—she’s still not over him.
There’s Jenny Dunkin—mother of three—who swore Dean broke her heart into a million pieces.
And there’s old Mrs. Jenkins.
She didn’t date Dean. But she rubs my belly and wishes us well, before shaking her head with a sweet smile. “Alicia must be so happy. I never thought I’d see the day when her wild grandson finally settled down.”
And I’m sensing a theme here.
I take Dean’s hand, and pull him into a corner, away from the shifting, bustling crowd. “Question.”
He runs his finger along the brim of my gray knit newsboy cap, looking down on me with a tempting, teasing expression.
“Answer.”
“Have you had sex with all these women?”
He hesitates, squinting. “All is such a strong word.”
I laugh. And I’m not jealous, but more . . . curious. And maybe a little intimidated. But I want to know him—the way the people in this town seem to know him. The details and the stories, all the pieces that, added together, have turned him into the man he is today.
“What’s a more accurate word?”
Dean looks up, scanning the room—and I think he may be counting. “Half? Two-thirds tops.”
“Two-thirds?!” I choke.
He dips his head, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him anywhere close to sheepish. “I got around a lot when I was younger.”
“I would say so. At least your ex-girlfriends still seem to like you. That’s a good sign.”
And Dean sobers right up. “Not all of them.” His voice gentles, going delicate. “You might hear things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“That I was a player. A dog. A heartbreaker. That I lied, cheated on every girlfriend I had.”
My stomach dips with a sinking sort of ache—that sense that pokes and prods when you worry something bad is about to happen.
“And if I hear those things, would they be true?”
Dean kicks at the ground with the tip of his toe. “Anything you hear about me is probably right on the money.”
“Oh.” I breathe out a slow breath. “I see.”
“But, Lainey,” Dean cups my cheek with one hand, resting the other on my rounded stomach, like he’s taking an oath. “I’m not like that anymore, okay? I don’t do that anymore. Not to anyone—but especially not to you.”
A little voice hisses in my head that that’s exactly what a player who’s still a player would say. But I ignore it.
Because maybe it’s the hormones or my own stupid, hopeful heart . . . but I believe him. The sinking, worried feeling is swept far away with the brush of his lips against my forehead and the feel of his arms pulling me in close. His wool coat is warm and smells like him—a manly, delicious, sandalwood scent that I remember in my dreams.
I tilt my head