“Am I stripes or solid?” he asked.

“Um…solid.”

While Mitch bent low against the table and aimed, I looked him over, taking in the khaki pants, the conservative navy V-neck sweater, and the short dark hair parted at the side and swept up into a neat wave at his forehead. I could still envision him in a loose plaid shirt over a white T-shirt, with faded jeans and sneakers. Back then his long hair had flopped forward to cover one eye, making me itch to thread my fingers through those thick waves and push them back from his face.

I was studying his hair so closely that I hardly noticed the cue ball roll slowly along the table, bounce off the rail and tap the blue two-ball, which crept forward several inches and stopped just short of the corner pocket. Mitch shrugged, his smile rueful.

I bit back a smirk. “So where do you live now?” I knew he’d gone away to university, and as far as I’d heard, he’d never returned to Eastport. Despite myself, I was curious to know where he’d ended up.

“Kitchener,” he said. “I settled there after I graduated from Waterloo. You?”

“I’m still in St. Catharines. Just here to see my mom.” Remembering it was my turn, I assumed my best pool stance and aimed at the twelve-ball, but focusing on my shot was a struggle.

“How is your mom?” he asked.

“Manic as ever,” I said.

“You look amazing.”

I glanced up to catch his enigmatic smile.

“As ever,” he added with a slight twitch of his lips.

Damn it, he looked amazing too. The beard really worked for him. Maturity had deepened the masculine appeal of those boyish good looks that had first made my insides melt to the consistency of hot pudding.

“Sorry for staring at you,” he added, as though I hadn’t been staring at him just as hard. “It’s just something else seeing you again after nearly twenty years. What have you been up to?”

“Running a flower shop I opened nine years ago.” No way was I about to tell him the rest—that my shop had gone under. “Life’s great,” I added, then wished I hadn’t told such a bald-faced lie. He could probably read the deception in my face.

Keeping my head low, I finally took my shot and missed the ball I was aiming for by a mile. Crap. The game would go on forever at this rate.

“You married?” Mitch asked as he sidled to the corner of the table to sight his next shot.

I shook my head. “Happily single. How about you?”

“Happily divorced.” The cue ball struck the orange five-ball with a soft clack and sent it rolling in a straight line and squarely into a side pocket.

“Oh.” I pushed back my curiosity over whom he’d married. Surely not Jodi McCain. “Any kids?”

“No. We wanted kids, but unfortunately it didn’t happen. Or maybe it’s not so unfortunate, considering the demise of our marriage.” After skillfully sinking the green six-ball, he paused to consider the one remaining solid ball on the table, the red seven.

I wondered vaguely who had dumped whom in that relationship, and it gave me a brief jolt of pleasure to imagine he’d had his heart stomped on and dragged through the dirt. Seconds later, I scolded myself for my pettiness.

“Well, you’re still young,” I said, watching his fluid, graceful stroke as he deftly sank his last ball. “I can say that because we’re the same age and it’s the same thing I tell myself. Not that I’m counting the minutes on my biological clock. I’m really not. I’ll be quite happy to let the clock run out.” Why am I telling him this?

Mitch glanced up at me without replying.

“Looks like you’re poised to win.” I pointed out the black eight-ball sitting a few inches from a corner pocket.

He took his time, bending low over the table to sight his shot at eye level before executing a solid, confident stroke. The cue ball struck the eight-ball hard, sending it bouncing off the rail. Watching the ball roll to the middle of the table, I had to wonder if he’d made such a bad move on purpose.

“How about the winner buys dinner?” he said.

I barked out a laugh. “I don’t want to have dinner with you, Mitch.”

“That’s disappointing. I thought it might be fun to catch up.”

“So you’re still into doing whatever’s fun for you and not giving a rat’s ass about other people’s feelings?” I asked in a deliberately mild tone, while I leaned in, aimed and sank the ten-ball in one swift motion. The anger funneling back into me seemed to be helping me with my game.

I hadn’t meant to say anything snide, but sarcasm had a way of rolling off my tongue regardless of my intentions.

Looking up, I watched his posture stiffen while his expression tightened.

“I never got a chance to apologize to you, Carly,” he said. “I wanted to.”

I blinked at him in surprise. “You could’ve found a way.”

“By the time I heard what had happened with Jodi, you’d gone back to St. Catharines.” Mitch leaned a hip against the table, resting his hand on the dark wood rail. “I asked your mother for your phone number but she said you didn’t want to talk to me.”

“I didn’t.” His forthcoming admission of guilt and remorse threw me off, all but dousing my anger. “But all that happened a long time ago,” I added with a jerk of my shoulders. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Why should it? It hadn’t mattered in years. Yet for some reason my insides were trembling and I had to press my lips tight to keep them from doing the same.

“It does matter that I hurt you.” His gaze never wavered from my face, his dark eyes searching mine for understanding. “What we shared meant a lot to me.”

“It meant a lot to me, too. That’s why it stung so much when I found out you had a girlfriend.” I took a step away, wrenching my focus back to the game. Sighting my shot only briefly, I swung the cue with a firm stroke and pocketed another ball.

Mitch followed me around the table. “You were the one I wanted to be with. I was working up the courage to break up with Jodi. But I was seventeen and stupid.” He bent to catch my eye. “I was a coward, Carly. I messed up, and I’m not making excuses. Even if it’s too little too late, I want to apologize now. I’m so sorry I deceived you.”

I dropped my gaze to the table, where only the cue ball and eight-ball were left. “All right. I accept your apology,” I said, and silently resolved to stand by my words.

I fought to concentrate on my next shot. After all the years I’d felt cheated out of the apology Mitch Logan owed me, hearing it now felt more cathartic than I’d imagined—and at the same time, not as satisfying as I’d hoped.

I stared in disbelief as the black ball rolled neatly into a corner pocket.

Mitch gave a low whistle. “Wow. Looks like you have to buy me dinner.” His smile turned contrite. “Only kidding. I heard your refusal loud and clear.”

An impulse—maybe brought on by that damned smile—compelled me to blurt, “No… I’ll have dinner with you. But you buy. Make it part two of your apology.”

The smile widened into a grin. “Great. I’ll drive. Eastport Mill Tavern?”

“I heard they turned the old mill into a restaurant, but I’ve never been there.” What am I doing?

“Perfect,” he said, and the date was a done deal, before I had a chance to consider how I’d cope with a couple of hours alone in the company of the first man who had broken my heart.

Mitch took a step closer to me and took the cue from my hand, his gaze locked on me. Crazy how those sultry dark eyes that had weakened my teenage knees years ago still caused a slight jelly-like sensation in my legs.

“What?” I asked when his gaze didn’t waver from my face.

“Just…” He lifted his hand and smoothed his thumb down my cheek.

Though startled, I didn’t move. My nerves were too preoccupied with the electric thrum that skittered from the point of contact on my face straight to my core.

Mitch withdrew his hand and showed me a smear of blue chalk on his thumb.

I expelled a nervous giggle that sounded so unlike my usual throaty laugh. More like the uncertain teenager I’d been the last time we saw each other.

But I wasn’t her anymore. Nor did I want to be.

I restrained myself from rubbing my cheek. Same zap of electricity, eighteen years later.

How was that possible?