Chapter 1
Riley
She’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Older, of course. Her face is a little thinner than I remember, a little paler, shaped by years I wasn't here to witness. She’s no longer the teenage girl who still haunts my dreams. She’s a woman now—unmistakably so. And she wears it well.
My eyes take her in greedily, roving over every visible inch of her body and causing my hands to tingle as I recall the feeling of holding her, caressing her. The softness of her skin. Her curves. Though she’s still slender, her breasts are fuller now, her hips a little wider.
And fuck me, it looks good on her.
Stephanie Miller. Steph. My Steph.
Well … not mine anymore.
She hasn’t been mine for a long time.
I watch as she smiles and leans into the woman seated next to her, who appears to be talking a mile a minute.
It’s evident they’re close. Besides the fact that they’re both in the wedding party and obviously good friends of the bride, their familiarity with each other is apparent in their body language and the amused looks they exchange.
Steph bites her lip and then chuckles, her shoulders shaking.
She says something that causes the other woman to throw her head back and laugh along with her.
Lucy Sage, I think, remembering the skinny girl with the dirty fingernails and out-of-control curls.
She sometimes used to tag along with my brother and Ava while they roamed the town on their bikes. She’s all grown up now, too, it seems.
And Ava? My mind draws up an image of the bossy little tomboy, hands on her hips as she stood up to bullies on the playground. My brother’s best friend, and the one who was always getting him into trouble. She’s … gone, now.
Shit, I can’t even think about that right now.
The reality of just how long I’ve been away hits me for the umpteenth time since I arrived home late last night. Home. Can I even still call it that after all the time that’s passed?
So much has changed.
I’m at my brother’s wedding, for one. My little brother’s wedding, though he’s no longer the gangly thirteen-year-old I remember. He’s unquestionably a man now. With a career. And a wife.
With a life.
And I’ve missed it all.
The thought causes a familiar heaviness to settle in my chest. It’s not a new one, though it hits a hell of a lot harder when actually faced with the proof of all I’ve missed.
I’ve lost so much time. Wasted it. Because of my shame.
I swallow thickly, gazing at Aidan. The reception is being held in a large white tent in Henry Evans’ backyard along the shoreline of Hedd Lake.
I have only vague memories of the older man, though I do recall him being a kindly sort.
According to my mother, he’s become something of an honorary father to Piper—my brother’s new wife—having taken her under his wing when she was new to Llyn Lakes.
The darkening sky and gently lapping waves form the perfect backdrop to the long head table where my brother sits with a giggling Piper now perched in his lap.
The wedding party is seated to either side of them.
Candles and low vases of what appear to be wildflowers adorn the table in front of them, and Aidan’s eyes glint lovingly in the candlelight as he smiles down at his woman as though she’s the very air he needs to breathe.
I know that feeling—remember it well.
The sound of cutlery tapping against glass starts up to my right, and before long, it’s reverberating throughout the tent as others join in, encouraging the groom to kiss his bride.
My brother is happy to oblige them, leaning down and claiming her lips in a kiss that is borderline inappropriate.
No one seems to mind, though, as tittering erupts around us and several of his buddies in the back whoop and holler at them in approval.
Even our mother, seated beside me, lets out an amused snort.
When he finally pulls away, the happiness on his face causes my heart to ache.
His eyes move around the room, and he smiles at his friends, his boss, our mother … but skips easily over me.
I’m not a part of it, I think wistfully. His life, his family, his joy. Nor will I likely ever have that type of love and happiness for myself.
Not again, anyway.
He won’t look at me. Won’t meet my eyes. My mother brought me over to introduce me to his wife earlier, and Aidan … walked away. Can’t say I blame him, though it hurts nonetheless.
I’ve burned many bridges.
Have so many regrets.
So. Many.
With that thought, my eyes flick back to Steph.
Again. Always. I’m unable to tear my gaze from her for too long now we’re actually in the same room together.
Well, tent, if you want to get technical about it.
The ceiling of the tent is strung with thousands of little twinkle lights that cast a warm glow over the space and pick up the honey highlights in her blonde hair.
My gaze coasts over her delicate features.
Pale pink lips, so plump and inviting … high cheekbones …
and those soft brown eyes. Deep pools of chocolate that used to look at me like I was her world.
Eyes that only met with mine once tonight before they quickly looked away.
Not fast enough, though. Not before I was able to take in the shock there, and the sadness.
I’m not surprised the sight of me would elicit those emotions in her, but somehow that sadness seemed deeply ingrained.
Like it might be a longtime companion of hers and not something kindled by my presence here tonight and the reminder of what we once were.
Despite her beauty, Steph looks tired. Like the years have taken their toll, though not on her body, on her heart.
There’s a weight to her shoulders that I suspect she’s been carrying for a good long while.
She appears to hide it well—laughing and celebrating with her friends—but despite the time that’s passed, I know her. I’ve always known her.
And I see her.
I see her pain.
My heart clenches at the thought of what might have caused it. Who.
I know I hurt her all those years ago, but … I can’t be the reason for this— this—
This soul-deep hurt I see in her.
Can I?
The night wears on. Again and again, my eyes find Steph.
I take in the smooth column of her throat, easily visible with the short, bobbed haircut she now sports. So very different from the long, thick mane of waves that fell halfway down her back when we were teenagers, but it suits her more mature look.
I take in the delicateness of her hands and her pale pink nail polish as she raises her champagne glass to toast the happy couple.
Hands I used to hold.
I take in the hint of cleavage beneath the neckline of her otherwise conservative dress, and the way that dress nonetheless hugs her curves.
Curves I once traced with my palms and long to feel again.
I take in the way the fabric smooths over her hips and swishes around her legs as she dances with her friends.
The way her toned calves look in those heels.
And when the soft lights overhead cast shadows across her bare shoulders, I remember the place where I used to nuzzle into her, the little divot of her collarbone where I used to kiss her.
I remember the smell of her skin and the citrusy scent of her shampoo.
I wonder if she still uses it. If she still smells like my Steph.
Mine?
What a joke.
I lost the right to call her that a long time ago.
Sixteen years ago, to be exact. And the pain of that—of missing her like I’d miss an organ or a limb—has never dulled.
She’s the one that got away.
The one I drove away, I correct myself.
Still, she’s the love of my life, and I never thought I’d see her again. Never let myself imagine it, though I knew I’d hold the memory of her in my mind and in my heart forever.
I never thought I’d see her again, but now that I have, one thing is certain. Though I know I don’t deserve it, I have to try.
I’ll do anything to get her back.