Late Wednesday afternoon, I dress in a sparkly blue dress and head for the door, only to change my mind and run back upstairs to change into a light brown sundress with woodland creatures embroidered on the bodice and the hem. I’m afraid the blue will be too sparkly, and I figure I can’t go wrong with a woodland creature theme, considering the venue.

When I arrive at Good Timber’s St. Johns location twenty minutes later, I’m relieved to learn my gut hasn’t led me astray. The assembled company—my soon-to-be coworkers, their spouses, and various friends of the brewery—are a handsome crew, but not an overly dressy one. There’s an easy, breezy vibe to the party, and I’m able to jump away from a leaking keg tap a lot faster in my white sandals than I could have in gold pumps.

Once I’ve secured a pint of Cranberry Cougar, I track Jax down at the bocce ball court in the back patio area and thank him for the invite.

“Of course. So glad you could make it.” His brown eyes flick up and down my frame in a way that is appreciative without being skeezy. Truly an art most men have yet to master, proving my new boss is a keeper. “Love your dress. You’re already earning us trendy cred just by showing up.”

“Well, thank you,” I say, deciding it’s too early to confess that I’m one of the least on-trend people I know. Hopefully I’ll have a chance to impress him with my work before he realizes that my fashion sense is only on-point about a third of the time.

Jax smiles “I’m glad you invited Tanner, by the way. We haven’t had a chance to have a beer and catch up in a while.”

“I’ll be sure to bring him by for a chat once he gets here,” I promise, easing away as two serious-looking men in suits sidle up to Jax, looking needy. “Catch you later.”

“Later.” Jax lifts a hand before turning to give the suits his attention.

I wander through groups of people engaged in conversation, card games, or prolonged study of the art that’s been hung on the back wall of the main dining room since the last time I was here. I marvel again how a party is something different to every person who attends. Some of these people are having a laugh-out-loud silly time with close friends, some are engaged in urgent, hushed discussions about business or personal matters, and some, like me, are circling the perimeter, looking for people who seem like they might be amenable to welcoming a newbie into their midst.

Thankfully, despite my years of solitude in the woods, I seem to remember how this “being social” thing works. I spot a group of mixed company—two friendly-looking girls and three guys who are playing darts with some very cool looking feathered arrows—and fold myself into their conversation with minimal fuss. They prove to be every bit as friendly as I’d hoped they would, as well as understanding about my poor aim.

After thirty minutes and another beer, I drift away from my new friends to visit the ladies, check the time—still over an hour until Tanner gets here, dammit—and apply a fresh coat of lip gloss. I’m debating whether to rejoin my pals or to strike out in search of more friendly faces, when I emerge from the ladies room and run smack into the last person I expect to see.

“Sam!” His name emerges with a breathy laugh as I step back, pulling my hands away from his chest with an “I’ve been burned” swiftness. I haven’t touched him in so long, and it feels immediately, intensely wrong.

We aren’t people who touch. Not anymore, not ever again.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, blinking fast.

His lips tremble into an uncertain smile, but instead of saying he’s here to cover the opening for one of the magazines he writes for, as I’m anticipating, he opens his mouth and crazy things come out. “I’m here to see you, actually.”

I turn my head sharply to one side and blink again. “I’m sorry?”

He laughs. “No, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I’m part of the Wood Timber tasting club. They send out an email blast every week, keeping members up to date on the brewery news. Yesterday they sent out a blast about the opening, with a list of the staff who will be working at the new location. I saw your name in the PR position and I just…” He shakes his head. “It felt like a sign, running into you twice in one week after so long wondering where you were and how you were doing.”

“That is kind of a crazy coincidence.” I step back, moving out of the way of two women weaving their way toward the bathroom.

His brow furrows as he jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “Can we talk, do you think? Catch up somewhere private?”

I nod a little too fast, stretching a hand toward the patio and the business offices beyond. “Sure. We could head to the staff break room if you want. I would take you to my office, but I have no idea where it is yet. I don’t officially start until next week.”

“Sounds good,” he says, following me down the hall. “So what made you decide to make the move to Portland? I thought we’d never get you out of the woods.”

“I still love the woods, but I got tired of being the poorest person I knew. I don’t mind suffering for my art, but it was time to see if I could find a way to improve my bottom line. And I have family here, of course.”

“I remember. How is your brother?”

“Good!” I force a cheery smile. “He’s engaged, too.”

“Good for him,” Sam says, before smoothly turning the conversation back to safer waters. “And good for you. Good Timber’s a great company.”

We talk shop—the usual grumblings about working in a creative profession in the digital age—as we leave the party and head down the cobblestone path to a smaller courtyard surrounded by the Good Timber offices. I lead the way to the break room; it’s a cozy space with a small bar, complete with two beers on tap, bistro tables and stools, and a kitchenette against the far wall, and as we go in, I deliberately leave the door open behind us.

I don’t know why, but I feel weird about being alone in an enclosed space with Sam. Obviously, we’re just friends now—or on our way to being friends, I guess, if he’s gone to all the trouble to track me down for a chat—but the memory of intimacies lurk beneath the surface, and sometimes open doors are as good at marking boundaries as closed ones. I can’t think about the fact that I used to make love to this man—sweet, sexy, no-holding-back love—or I’ll do something mortifying like blush bright red or cry. The way I cried the day Sam told me we were never going to have a second chance because he’d fallen in love with someone else while we were taking a break for me to figure my shit out.

“So what’s up?” I circle the bar. “Would you like a beer? Looks like we’ve got Hipster Honey and a pale ale on draft.”

“No, thanks.” Sam leans against the entrance to the bar, blocking my path out, unknowingly feeding my ex-encounter anxiety. “I don’t want to keep you from the party for too long. I just thought…” He trails off, studying his hand as his fingers spread wide on the polished wood. “This is a beautiful piece.”

“It is,” I agree, beginning to think I’m not the only one who’s feeling awkward. A long moment passes in silence before I add in a softer voice, “This doesn’t have to be weird, Sam. I know I was a mess when we broke up for good, but I’m okay now. And I’m happy for you. It seems like Madeline is a beautiful person, inside and out.” I smile, a little surprised to find I mean it.

I am happy for him, something that wouldn’t have been possible before Tanner.

Damn. Tanner.

Just thinking about him makes me feel like I’ve swallowed sunshine. I’ve got it bad. Worse than I had it for Sam a few weeks into our relationship, that’s for damned sure, and look how far down the love road we went together.

I’m so distracted by this realization—and the simultaneously terrifying and exciting suspicion that Tanner might be that even more perfect-for me-than-Sam guy I never dreamed I’d find—that I don’t realize Sam is within touching distance until his hand settles on mine, pinning me between his warm skin and the cool wood of the bar.

I look up to find him staring at me with an intensity that throws me off center. “What’s wrong?” I ask, brow furrowing.

“Madeline is wonderful,” he says. “But she’s not you.”

I gape at him, eyes wide, so shocked that all I can do is open and close my mouth like a startled goldfish as Sam leans closer.