Wyatt narrowed his eyes.

“She wore a ring on her right hand. Newly divorced or stepping out. I don’t want that.”

“What’s wrong with newly divorced?”

Luke wasn’t sure, so he went back to his original dislike. “Blondes never did anything for me.”

Wyatt glanced around. “What about her?” He pointed his beer at a brunette passing by.

Somewhat attractive . . . kinda short. Luke shrugged.

“Not available. Your head isn’t in the game.”

Luke turned back to the bar and signaled the bartender. “My head is very much in the game. It needs to be in someone’s game.”

Wyatt laughed. “Your head is in Texas.”

Luke had the bartender’s attention and skipped his first thought of another beer. “Jack straight up.”

Wyatt lifted his eyebrows.

Even with the noise in the bar, the silence that followed between him and Wyatt sounded like an iceberg in the Pacific.

Luke waved his hand a second time once he downed his first shot of whiskey.

The bartender shifted his eyes between both men and walked away once Luke lifted his glass. Images of Zoe danced behind the mirror in the bar.

“My head is not in Texas,” Luke said.

Wyatt ordered another beer.

The jukebox shifted gears from country to classic rock.

“I know I’m breaking the man code here . . . but I call bullshit on that.”

The liquor in Luke’s head did a tiny tap dance and reminded him he wasn’t a teenager any longer.

“I’m not thinking about her.”

Wyatt set his beer on the bar and squared his shoulders to the back mirror. Looked like the two of them would be speaking through the thing.

“What I don’t understand is why you’re not with her.”

“She left.” Luke didn’t need to say who she was . . . didn’t need to pretend with Wyatt that Zoe didn’t exist. “I’m over it.” He drained his drink.

“You may have been over it. But after the reunion, you stopped being over it.”

Their ten-year class reunion brought Zoe back to town. She’d stuck around long enough to sizzle his world with memories and desire, only to leave when all the festivities ended. Then, when Melanie’s daughter was in the hospital, she’d come back. The two of them had a couple of conversations that made him think maybe . . . just maybe.

Then she left again.

And she didn’t return.

“She’s in Texas. I’m in Oregon.”

“And?”

“It wouldn’t . . . it isn’t . . .” It wouldn’t work. She lived in Texas. And more importantly, she’d walked away. Yeah, they’d both been young. Too young to be talking about forever, but he hadn’t ever truly gotten over her. He’d wanted to . . . God knew he wanted to, but every damn time he saw her it was as if time sucked him into some kind of vortex he was unable to avoid, and he was right back in the summer of his senior year in high school, planning his future with the girl of his dreams.

Only his teenage dreams were just that. Adolescent, hormone driven desires for the sexiest girl in school. As much as he wanted to convince her to stay and make their life work, she left, and he realized how powerless he was. He mourned her leaving for a season and then drove her memory away with every girl he could. It wasn’t long before that didn’t work and the trips out of town became less and less frequent.

He watched the recorded episodes of Warring Chef, the show where Zoe had won the second-place spot, the show that had given her a zillion opportunities. As his eyes caught her tucking her long hair behind her ear on the screen, he’d remember capturing her hair and pulling it back to kiss her neck.

When the culinary show played out in a sensual series of images in his head . . . he turned off his recordings and drove to Eugene for the night.

“Can I tell you something?” Wyatt pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Free world.”

“I think you owe it to yourself to give that a second chance.”

Luke twisted in his bar stool. “What about ‘she’s in Texas’ did you not understand?”

Wyatt closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Perrier with lime? I would never have thought that would work if I hadn’t seen it.”

He was tall, thinly built, wearing a business suit. The slight twang to his voice said he lived in Texas, but his lack of boots and a hat told her he wasn’t a native.

Zoe lifted her vodka tonic and took a drink. “It could be sparkling water.”

“Could would be the key word.”

She liked his smile. “Zoe,” she said, extending her hand.

“Raymond.” He shook her hand and waved his left in the air. “Married.”

“Not married.” Zoe waved back.

“I’m guessing you’re not a missionary either.”

“Nowhere close.”

“I would imagine a woman as beautiful as you has to come up with new lines to derail men all the time.”

“Quick wit isn’t needed when they’re drunk . . . but yeah.” She looked beyond him and noticed another couple talking. “Where’s your wife?”

“At home.” His smile left his eyes. “And no, I’m not hitting on you.”

She didn’t feel like he was. Still, she had to ask . . .

“You’re in a bar on a Friday night while your wife is at home . . . what, with the kids? Highly suspicious, Raymond.”