The Rebound - Stefanie London Page 0,68

cheered as the servers poured out the first glasses.

Feeling like a voyeur from his spot alone on the patio, he kept his eyes trained on the woman. Celia Evans—the one he’d let get away. No, wait! She was the one he’d driven away. They’d been best friends all through college. She’d been his sounding board for when he needed advice, she’d helped him pass the first-year computer-science course he’d nearly failed. He’d talked her through breakups and makeups, and been her steady Saturday brunch and matinee date. The good times outnumbered the bad. But that one bad time, he thought, wincing to himself. It had been enough to drive a half-nation-wide wedge between them.

She’d been a blonde back then; she’d changed her hair. Now it was dark brown, long and straight. Her makeup was immaculately done, and her clothing and accessories were styled flawlessly. She may look different now, but he could see through it. He still knew her. One of her friends passed her a glass that was topped with a mix of fruit juices. If he had made the drink for her, he would have chosen a mix of orange and cranberry. The pink-orange color of the drink told him it was exactly that. She sipped, and a small smile formed on those lips, and she closed her eyes. Savoring the flavor. Watching her drink his rum, enjoying it, made him warm. Almost turned him on. He sipped on his drink, which held the same kind of rum that she had been served. The vibration in his chest was no longer the throbbing house music, but he could feel his heart beating as they tasted the rum together. An innocent, but similarly erotic thing. It affected him.

It then occurred to him that instead of talking to her, he’d been watching her like a creep. What was he doing? Might as well get himself a pair of binoculars and a white windowless van. But the more he looked at her, the more he could tell that she was a woman who didn’t want to be bothered. And what would she do if she saw him? Their last meeting, even though it was eight years ago, hadn’t been a pleasant one, and he doubted she would have forgiven him that easily. But if Celia saw him stepping into her line of sight, then she could make the decision of whether she wanted a conversation with him or not, he reasoned.

She picked up the bottle from the ice bucket in the center of the table and inspected the label. He smiled, too, when her lips turned upward, and she looked around the crowded club until her eyes connected with his. Celia smiled at him, shook her head and said something to her friends. Then she stood and pushed down the skirt of her short dress, the length of which did little to cover her impossibly long legs.

She walked toward him. His heart was playing a steady ratta-tat-tat against his rib cage, drowning out the noise of the club. He raised his chin, nodding in recognition, trying to play it cool, and hoped he was successful.

Judging by the smile on her face when she joined him on the patio, she couldn’t have been too upset to see him, but it remained to be seen. “Quin,” she said, putting down her glass on the nearby railing as she stood in front of him. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him in for a hug. His arms were around her waist, and he closed his eyes, burying his face in her hair. She may have changed her shampoo and perfume—replacing the once-fruity fragrances with richer ones—but her scent was still the same. When they parted, she put her hands on his shoulders and held him at arm’s length, looking him up and down.

“You look great.”

“So do you.”

“Thanks for the rum,” she said. “I should have known it was from you.”

He shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She smiled. “I see.” She picked up her glass again and sipped from it. He was close enough to smell the sweet notes of the juice and the spicy rum on her breath.

They both looked over the railing onto the street below them. Even at three in the morning, South Beach was a hive of activity.

“It’s been a while.” It was lame, but it was all he could manage to say. Tension squeezed his throat. Quin hated the stilted, awkward tone of their