Page 7 of Make My Heart Malt

A heavy sigh escapes my lips. So much for hiding. Time to feign ignorance since it’s easier than the truth. My heart lodges in my throat as I pat around on the floor. “I—um—I lost a contact.” I continue to tap the dirty tile floor, searching for my nonexistent contact.

“If I know anything about bar floors, you won’t want to put that back in your eye when you find it,” he says smugly.

“When did you start wearing contacts?” Lach asks from behind me.

I twist my head to face him and mouth, “I hate you.”

Lach shrugs. “It’s a valid question.”

“With the way you’re crawling on the floor, I suspect you’re trying to avoid me,” Garrett says.

The corner of his lips lift into a half-smirk. It’s hot and sexy and shouldn’t affect me the way it does. It’s always been his signature look and can still make butterflies take flight in my belly.

Not willing to abandon my contact ruse, I pretend to pluck it off the floor. “Got it.” I scramble to my feet, avoiding eye contact with Garrett as I shoulder past him. My footsteps echo off the walls as I storm toward the bathroom and slam the door behind me. I sag against the door, brushing my dirty hands on my jeans. What the fuck was that? I’ve known Garrett for half my life, yet he’s turned me into a blithering idiot. I guess it’s the not seeing him or talking to him for ten years that really did me in. Never in a million years did I expect him to show up here.If I had to guess, he got the same wedding invitation I did. Granted, it’s his brother, so he would be expected to show, but it’s not like Garrett to conform to expectations.

I push off the door and stroll to the sink. Taking a paper towel from the dispenser, I run it under the faucet until it’s damp. I press the towel to my face, the icy chill seeping into my heated skin. Too bad there isn’t a window so I canPretty Womanmy way out of here. Instead, I hike up my pants, figuratively of course, and give myself a pep talk. I can do this. I’m an adult and can handle the situation like the twenty-eight-year-old I am.

“Dessa?” His voice is deep as it penetrates through the door.

All the previous adrenaline dissipates as a blanket of red floods my vision. Nope. Screw the high road. Fuck him and fuck him for making me feel feelings I was not anticipating feeling today. He can now experience what it’s like to have someone walk away. I yank open the door and he nearly topples through the doorway. I shoot him an icy stare as his hand flies to the doorjamb to regain his balance. His signature scent of citrus and amber fills the air, reminding me of happier times we once shared. It’s both sexy and seductive. It could possibly be my kryptonite.

His gaze locks on mine. A crackle of electricity fills the air around us. “You dyed your hair.”

Instead of bolting past him, I freeze. My eyelashes flutter while I process his words. “After not seeing me, not talking to me, not a single social media message with ‘Hi, how are you? We should catch up!’ for ten fucking years all you have to say to me is ‘You dyed your hair’?”

He stares at me without blinking, as he realizes the words he said and how stupid they sounded.

His silence fuels the raging inferno building inside me.He thinks things can go back to the way they were? That’s not happening. “Why are you here? Just so you can walk away without a goodbye again? Well, screw you. I’m doing the walking away this time.”

I shoulder past him, leaving him standing in the doorway alone. Am I being childish? Probably. Would the adult thing be to talk this out? Absolutely. Do I care? Fuck no. He left the first time, and I’m making sure I’m the one leaving for the last time. Before I reach the end of the hallway leading into the bar, his voice echoes behind me, followed by his footsteps.

“Dessa. Wait. Talk to me,” he pleads.

When I reach the bar, Lach glances at me and then to Garrett, who’s still behind me. “Everything okay?”

“I can’t be here anymore. I need to leave.”

Without missing a beat, Lach says, “I’ll cover the rest of your shift.”

“Thanks. I owe you.” I’m grateful he trusts me and doesn’t ask questions, even though I’ll have to tell him everything later. Right now, I don’t have time. I need to get out of here. Mostly, I need to get away from Garrett.

“Dessa! Wait.” Garrett’s voice trails behind me.

My steps quicken as I continue to ignore him.

“Dessa! Can we talk?”

I pretend to tune him out.

“Dessa!” His hand grips my elbow, and I yank my arm away.

Spinning around, I almost collide into his chest. I drop a foot back to give myself more space. “You had ten years to talk and what did you do? Nothing. You don’t get to waltz in here now and demand that we talk.” I twist on my heel to leave, but his fingers brush my wrist.

“Tates. It’s not what you think.”

I freeze. It’s like I smacked face-first into a brick wall. Iguess I sort of did, and its name is Garrett Dawson. Ten years have passed since I’ve heard his nickname for me. A name that was once endearing now leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

I remove the “Reserved for Dessa” paper sign left on the metal bleachers behind home plate and fold it before tucking it in my pocket. Every game Garrett leaves a reserved seating sign where he wants me to sit. For the most part, everyone leaves it empty for me. Seated behind me is an older couple talking about baseball, sacks, and taters. My eyebrows pinch together, curious what that has to do with baseball. Until the man explains that sacks are the bases, and a tater is a home run. I chuckle to myself at the comparison.

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