CHAPTER THREE

L uke

Troy is not in the apartment, so I go to the coffee shop across the street. He’s probably still having noisy sex with tonight’s conquest, celebrating how he ruined my life by secretly signing me up for Seeking Mr. Right.

I know it’s him. I don’t one hundred percent know, but lately he’s been smirking extra hard every time I mention the show.

Christmas garlands, equipped with red velvet ribbon and tasteful gold lights, drape over every arch, and Bing Crosby croons. Boston does sophistication well. I order a hot apple cider and grab a seat.

The shop is almost empty, and my gaze drifts from the holiday decor to the few people inside. A couple paces the coffee shop as if they’ve each chugged down a venti latte. The woman is a petite blonde with heavy bangs. I can’t see the guy’s face, but he’s tall and slender, and his hair is equally blond.

“This was a mistake,” the man says, and I frown.

His voice sounds familiar, and I whip my gaze toward the couple.

“We never should have chosen him,” he says, and I’m sure it’s him.

Sebastian Archer.

I know his real name, but after years of hearing him referred to as Sebastian Archer, he’s become that in my mind too.

God, they must be talking about Mr. Right. Which means...they’re talking about me.

He’s saying I’m a mistake.

And even though it’s exactly what I’ve been thinking, I don’t want to hear it from him.

“Shouldn’t have picked a hockey player,” Sebastian says.

Icy wind races through the coffee shop.

I allow my gaze to slide toward his section of the coffee shop.

It’s definitely, definitely him.

I know the planes of his face, and I know the curve of his lips.

I’m getting out of here.

I storm from the coffee shop, because once you’re an athlete of a certain muscular mass, sneaking can’t ever be the word for moving.

“It’s him!” A high-pitched squeal shatters my resolve. I falter my steps, but then continue toward the door.

“Luke Hawthorne!” The soprano voice says again.

I curse myself for not wearing earbuds. My gaze flicks involuntarily toward the sound.

The petite blonde woman grins at me. “You’re Luke Hawthorne, right?”

I wonder if I can pretend I’m not.

“He is.” A tenor voice I definitely recognize rumbles to my right. I turn my gaze, and it’s him.

For a moment, his eyes flare, but then something else, maybe fear, but that can’t be right, replaces it.

“We’re with Falcon Productions,” Sebastian says finally, even though the normal thing would have been to say, we went to high school together, remember me?

“We tried to see you, but no one was home and you weren’t answering your phone!” the blonde woman exclaims, her voice bubbly.

I blink.

“I’m Ella James,” she says, and in the next moment I’m shaking her hand.

“From Falcon Productions...” I slide my gaze over to Sebastian.

Why hasn’t he mentioned he’s also from my hometown?

But when I look at him, he looks at the ground, and though the floorboards are probably actually pretty awesome, that’s not the direction I expect his gaze to go in.

“What is this about?” I ask.

“Oh.” This time Ella blinks.

They think I should know what they’re doing here.

“You’re going to be the next Mr. Right,” Sebastian says.

“No, I’m not.” I swing around and hurry out the door.

SEBASTIAN

“Sebastian?” Ella frowns. “Do you want to—”

I stare at her, my heart pounding.

That was Luke Hawthorne. Luke Hawthorne from Ashcove High. And Ashcove Middle. And Ashcove Elementary.

But this version of him is nothing like the kid I was once vaguely aware of.

My organs plummet.

Ella’s eyes round. I think I’m supposed to do something.

“He’s getting away,” Ella says.

Right.

That won’t do. Clark was adamant he wants Luke Hawthorne to be his Mr. Right, and I won’t let him leave without explanation.

“Luke did enter the second round of the application process?” I ask Ella. “He did confirm he was interested in the spot?”

“Yes. In fact, he was effusive. He laughed a lot at the prospect. He seemed...joyful.”

Effusive? Joyful? There are many words to describe Luke.

But effusive? No, not him. No way.

“I should go after him,” I say.

“Yeah.” She stares at me, and I realize too late it’s because I’m not moving.

“Okay.”

I dash from the coffee shop.

I see Luke at once. His figure towers over the other pedestrians. His blond hair glints under the streetlamp, and his looming figure makes large tracks in the thickening layer of snow.

“Luke!” I holler.

His steps quicken.

Shit.

I hurry after him. My designer wool coat that’s nothing like the puffy monstrosity I used to wear in Massachusetts flaps around me.

He’s too dignified to actually run, or maybe he doesn’t think he would actually need to do so.

“Luke!” I call again.

He doesn’t turn to me, but I’m almost beside him. My breath tumbles, my shoes slide.

Then all of a sudden, I’m falling backwards. My hands flail.

In the next moment, Luke swings around, and about a tenth of a second after that, he grasps hold of my hand. He pulls me toward him, and I’m no longer heading toward the ice-and-snow smudged ground in an embarrassing manner, but instead toppling toward his chest in an equally embarrassing manner.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice low. The sound thrums through my body.

If I didn’t know him better, I would say he was nice.

Unfortunately, I do know him better.

I stiffen and step away, hoping my nostrils don’t flare at his scent.

It’s probably sweat. No reason for me to act like a parfumier who has just created his masterpiece. I look away and hope my cheeks aren’t burning and my breath is not coming out as fast as I think it is.

“Are you okay?” Luke asks, his voice still low and soothing, as if he’s auditioning to be an audiobook narrator.

I stiffen, and my shoulders square automatically. “Fine.”

“Well.” He pauses. “I guess I’ll go.”

“You might not catch me in time if I run after you again.”

His lips twitch. “No.”

I allow myself to scrutinize him. I see where his soft baby skin has turned to clean shaven and where his features have firmed. The Luke I remember only became taller than me my last year in Ashcove. He used to cast his blue eyes about, as if he was just as surprised at seeing everyone from a taller perspective as everyone else was at seeing him up there.

He doesn’t remember me, I remind myself, swallowing back the well of fear. I was two grades higher than him, and I’m not Seth Archer anymore.

My skin is clear, my body toned, my teeth shiny, my hair highlighted and snipped to the whims of the best hairstylists.

Luke’s face sombers, the amusement drifting away, as if it’s been swept away by the gusts of wind that storm from the Atlantic, still looking for leaves to rip from their branches so they can be dumped into ugly trash bags and brought some place to burn.

“I’m with Falcon Productions,” I add hastily. “You applied to be our Mr. Right in our Seeking Mr. Right: Christmas Edition. I’m the host. Anyway,” I say quickly, because he’s acting like we’re playing cards in Vegas, and his face is stoic and impassive. “You were selected. Congratulations! Welcome to the show!”

His face doesn’t shift.

For a moment, he’s Bryce, and my heartbeat thunders, but then the light moves over him differently, and he’s Bryce’s kid brother again.

God, I need to hold it together. I’m twenty-six now. My life is completely different.

I inhale icy air.

“Find someone else,” Luke says.

Shit.

“It’s a huge honor,” I say hurriedly. “You’ll be more famous than ever before.”

Luke grimaces, and I remember too late that the Luke Hawthorne I knew was on the shyer side.

“I need to go,” he says.

Luke turns, and I want to let him leave. I want to nod and say I understand and maybe utter some platitudes.

I refuse to go back to the coffee shop and tell Ella I’ve failed.

“Please,” I say.

Luke’s gaze falls on me, his blue eyes searching me for...something. I give my blandest, most professional smile. The kind I never made in Ashcove because I was always too scared.

Don’t let him remember me. Don’t let him remember me. Don’t let him remember me.

There’s no way he’ll want to do anything with the guy whom his brother bullied each day. My connection to him won’t get me anywhere, and all I can do is pretend I don’t know him and hope he doesn’t recognize me.

He’s probably every bit as conceited as Bryce. He’s probably worse. I know what NHL players make. If I can secure his participation, he’ll be our wealthiest Mr. Right ever.

Also the most good-looking.

I hate that he’s so perfect for the role. I hate we’ll probably get more viewers than ever before. I hate everything about this, everything about him.

Luke sighs. “No.”

With that, he turns around.

His figure pads through the ever-increasing snowfall, and he moves farther and farther away from me, taking the hopes of Falcon Productions with him.

I tighten my fists. This isn’t over.