Page 92 of Small Town, Big Storm

“A salad,” I say with disgust.

His laughter fills the air, and it’s so fucking beautiful it takes my breath away, makes me forget—for a moment, anyway—about the leafy green stuff that’s apparently in my future.

“I’m kidding,” he says, pulling out another container and passing me one of my favorites.

He presses it into my hand and my heart skips a beat.

A peach, mozzarella, and prosciutto panini topped with a balsamic vinaigrette and?—

“That’s cheating,” I accuse.

His mouth twitches.“It’s not salad if it’s on a sandwich.”

“Who says?”

“Molly herself,” he replies lightly, opening the top of the salad.There’s greens and veggies and a giant chicken breast.He dumps on some dressing, sprinkles some crumbly cheese and toasted walnuts on top.

“What?”I ask, tearing my gaze from the sight of the confident, capable way he’s assembled the salad, from his thick, blunt fingers grasping his fork, from the way he takes a bite and licks a droplet of dressing from his bottom lip.

“Molly said it doesn’t count as a salad if it’ssandwiched—forgive the pun—between two slices of bread.”

I pause.

Then shake my head, know I’ve been bested.

“Considering it’s two slices of Molly’s homemade ciabatta then I’ll let it slide,” I tell him.

He chuckles.“Noted, baby.”

That slides like warm, gentle fingers drifting down my spine.

“Eat, Pop,” he prompts a moment later, his gray eyes gentle…and stubborn.

Maybe—purely on principle—I should argue, but instead, I find myself lifting my sandwich to my mouth, taking a bite.“Oh, my God,” I moan through the explosion of flavors—the sweetness of the peaches, the tart sharpness of the balsamic, the saltiness of the ciabatta, even the peppery flavor of the arugula all come together to form…

Perfection.

“See?”he teases.“Salad can be yummy.”

“Try convincing Holly of that fact,” I tease back.

Then immediately regret it when I watch the light slip out of his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say.“I didn’t mean?—”

He reaches for my hand.“I know you didn’t.I…just wish I was here for it.”A beat.“Forallof it.”

“Why weren’t you?”I ask.“I mean, I know that you had to go play hockey.I know you had to go away for it, but why didn’t you come back?”I whisper, my eyes stinging.“That night.I thought…I thought it was the beginning of something permanent, and instead…”

“Instead what?”

The question is sharp, sharp enough to dry my eyes, to send my anger ratcheting up.“Instead,” I snap, setting down my sandwich, “you were gone.You just left me without a word, without a way to contact you.I was alone, Storm.I had to do it on my own.”

He snorts.“You were far from alone,” he mutters.“Everyone in this fucking town had their noses in your business.”

I flinch, rock back.

Then my anger roars forward in full force.