3 #3
Nash gave a polite nod to the host, his presence commanding the room without even trying. He slid into the empty seat beside me, across from Sammy. Close enough that the faint, familiar scent of his cologne drifted over me, wrapping around my senses.
I didn’t have to look to know he was smiling. I could feel it. The waiter appeared, handing out leather-bound menus that had both my and Sammy’s eyebrows rising. These price tags were definitely a few steps above our usual, and a full stratosphere above our college days.
Josh flipped open the wine list. “Do you both drink red?” he asked.
Sammy nodded eagerly. “I love red.”
“Sure,” I said, trying to sound casual while acutely aware of Nash sitting beside me and annoyed as hell that he affected me when I didn’t want him to.
Josh flagged down the waiter. “We’ll do the 2017 Barolo,” he told him, handing back the menu.
Sammy’s eyes widened. “Wow,” she sighed. “That sounds fancy.”
Nash let out a whistle. “Barolo, huh? Somebody’s got good taste.”
I didn’t know anything about wine, but the fact that it was a 2017 told me it was probably very expensive.
Josh gave a modest shrug. “Figure if we’re celebrating Sammy’s first NHL game, we might as well do it right.”
“Guess so,” Nash said, leaning back slightly, his knee brushing against mine under the table.
Josh smiled, and it was charming—almost too charming. “So,” he said, turning his attention to me. “How long have you and Sammy known each other?”
“Since college,” I replied, grateful for an easy question. “We were roommates.”
“And now we’re roommates again,” Sammy added, nudging me playfully across the table.
Josh smiled. “That’s cool.”
The waiter returned with the wine, a white linen napkin draped over his arm, presenting it to Josh like it was some prized possession.
Josh inspected the label and gave a nod. “Looks perfect,” he said, and the waiter began the slow, practiced process of opening the bottle.
I bit down on my lip to keep from laughing.
Josh swirled and tasted the wine like he actually knew what he was doing, and he probably did.
But the whole thing felt like a performance, like we were pretending to be fancier than we were.
Or at least fancier than I was. I was completely out of my element.
“It’s great,” Josh declared.
I caught Nash’s expression out of the corner of my eye and knew better than to look at him, because he was fighting to hold back a grin.
Some things clearly never changed—he still had that same infuriatingly boyish look whenever he thought something was funny but knew better than to say it out loud.
He might’ve grown up, but in moments like this, I could still see the same mischievous teenager I used to know.
“Very good, sir,” the waiter responded and proceeded to pour a small amount of wine into our ridiculously large wineglasses.
Sammy leaned over to me and whispered, “I feel like I’m on a reality show.”
I nodded, grateful that it wasn’t just me.
We tasted the wine, and yeah, Josh was right. It was really good, but way above my price class. I was more of a ten-dollar-bottle-from-the-sale-shelf kind of girl.
“So,” Josh said, setting his glass down and turning to Sammy. “What do you do for work?”
“I make wedding cakes,” she said with a proud smile.
Josh’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really? That’s pretty cool.”
Sammy beamed. “Yeah, I like it. I mean, I bake other things too, but the wedding cakes are my favorite.”
As they talked, Nash leaned closer to me. “You okay?” he murmured, his voice low enough for only me to hear.
“Yeah,” I said, glancing at him. “Just . . . this is a little fancier than my usual.”
He smiled, eyes glinting. “Yeah, it’s not exactly Mario’s,” he said, referring to the old Italian place in our hometown—the one everyone went to after games.
I giggled. Actually giggled. “I’d prefer a pizza or a burger and beer,” I admitted.
He grinned. “Now that’s more our style.”
I laughed softly, remembering all those burgers our families had shared growing up next door to each other.
A quick dinner at the Reeds’ after one of Nash’s Saturday-night games, or after a Sunday baseball game when Jackson and Nash’s brother, Isaac, played.
So many of our memories were tied to sports—backyard hockey in winter, baseball in the summer.
Nash had chosen hockey, while Jackson and Isaac stuck with baseball.
My brother’s career had ended in college after a knee injury, but Isaac had made it all the way to the majors.
I was always the supporter—the one on the sidelines, cheering them on.
Josh looked over just then, his expression tightening for the briefest second before he smiled again. “So, Kennedy,” he said, steering the conversation back to me. “What about you? What do you do?”
I told him about my new job, but my mind wasn’t on the words.
Nash’s knee brushed mine again—not flirtatious or intentional, just familiar.
A quiet reminder of everything we used to be.
When I looked up, Josh was looking at me.
And not just looking—watching. Like he was trying to read something on my face, trying to figure out what was going on between Nash and me. The realization made my chest tighten.
This wasn’t just a nice dinner with friends to Josh. He wanted more.
Maybe I should’ve been flattered, and part of me was. He seemed like a catch—kind, confident, good-looking in that clean-cut, every-mom-would-approve kind of way—but I couldn’t stop comparing him to Nash.
And the fact that Nash didn’t want anything . . . that should’ve made it easier.
But it really didn’t. It just messed with my head.