Page 26 of My Hotshot

“So,” he said, clearing his throat, “where’s this paint you wanted me to look at?”

“Paint?”

He smirked. “You wanted me to come over to give you a second opinion on the paint you chose since Lottie isn’t here.”

“Oh!” I gasped and turned toward the hallway. “Yeah, totally. Come to my hallway.” Lord, I was smooth.

Duane chuckled and followed me down the short hall. I flipped on the light and presented my masterpiece: eleven swatches of paint in a chaos of color smeared across the wall.

“Whoa,” Duane laughed. “I did not think you were going to have that many choices.”

I winced. “Yeah, I walked into Home Depot and liked every color I saw.”

“Clearly.” He stepped closer, examining the swatches. “I thought you said you’d already figured out the color?”

“I did when I texted you, but now I don’t.”

“Has Lottie picked one?”

I pointed to the second shade of butter yellow. “She picked that one for the hallway.” I gestured to the dark plum. “And this one for an accent wall in her bedroom. The rest she wants white.”

He nodded thoughtfully, then turned to the living room wall. “What’s wrong with the color in there?”

“It’s beige,” I said flatly, as if that answered everything.

And then it hit me. I was standing in my hallway with Duane—Dice—talking about wall paint.

“I don’t know why I called you,” I murmured and tried to move past him. But his arm came up, gently barring my way.

“Where are you going, Lainey?”

“To find a hole to fall into because I just realized I called biker Duane to help me pick out paint colors,” I groaned. “I am never drinking again.”

He chuckled. “Drinking a whole bottle of wine by yourself is not the best idea, but I can’t judge. I’ve put away more cases of beer solo than I can count.”

“You did that when we were in high school, Duane,” I reminded him with a smile.

“God, Lainey. I haven’t been called Duane in years. You blow into town and only call me Duane.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, not sorry at all. “Calling you Dice doesn’t sound right. I could probably manage D, but that’s as far as I can go. Your biker friend got a kick out of me calling you Duane.”

Duane raked his hand through his hair. “Yeah, pretty sure I won’t hear the end of that for a while.”

We were quiet again. The hallway felt smaller. Warmer.

“So much has happened in the past sixteen years,” I whispered, “but why does it feel like we’re back in high school when I look at you?”

He stepped closer. “Because life moved on, but what you and I had… it’s still there.”

I should’ve stepped back. I should’ve told him to leave. I didn’t want a relationship. I had one for fifteen years that nearly broke me, and I was just now learning how to breathe again. Letting Duane in—Dice, whatever—was reckless.

“You left, Duane,” I whispered.

He nodded slowly. “I did.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I did,” he said, voice low. “I wasn’t made to stay in Enid. And neither were you.”

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