I loved him. God, I loved him. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone like that since, not even John. And looking at Dane now, feeling what I’m feeling, I know I didn’t make up those emotions.

I might have been a teenager, but it was love. Crazy love. The kind of love that breaks you open and makes you someone else.

Someone harder.

Someone stronger.

It’s then that Dane turns his head and looks straight at me.

It crosses my mind that he doesn’t recognize me, and I don’t know if I’m more relieved or disappointed, but I’m the one to look away first. I drop my gaze to my half-eaten sandwich even as heat rushes through me, from my collarbone up my neck to my cheekbones.

He still has those eyes.

He still has it, that energy, chemistry, whatever it is that made me crazy all those years ago.

I hate him. I do.

I leave fifteen dollars on the table, far more than I need to, but I don’t have change and I don’t want to wait. I have to get out of here, have to get away.

On my feet, I’m heading for the door, but I can’t get there before Dane does. He cuts me off before I reach the door.

“Shey.”

It’s all he says, and I tilt my head back and look into Dane’s green eyes.

“Dane,” I say in reply, my voice just as cool as his, although my pulse is racing as if I’m running for my life. And in a way, I am. I chased this man for over a year. I mailed him letters. Made cookies. Left notes beneath his truck’s windshield wipers.

I was a fool, such a fool, and so out of my league. But I had to let him know how I felt. Had to let him know how much he mattered, and how much he mattered to me.

Dane’s expression is peculiar. “Home on vacation?”

“Not exactly. We’re living on the ranch right now.”

“We?”

“My boys and me.”

Dane’s eyebrows lift. He doesn’t need to add anything else, but I do. “‘We moved back after Cody’s funeral,” I blurt out. “We’re trying to figure a few things out, and with Mama gone to Jefferson to be with Grandma, Brick could use some help on the ranch, so here we are.”

Flustered by Dane’s silence, I add, “I looked for you at Cody’s funeral.”

“I called your mother. And sent flowers.”

I feel a lash of anger. “It’s not the same thing.”

“No, it’s not.” He shifts his weight. “But I was in a hospital in Houston, rehabbing after my last surgery. I wanted to be there. I would have, if I could have.”

My fury subsides, and I feel just loss. “Brick doesn’t talk about you anymore,” I say, hating the sadness that’s replaced the anger. “What’s happened between you?”

“It’s a long story.”

I frown and am about to press him for a better answer when I notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring. My thoughts jump, abruptly changing direction.