I can’t get over how much has changed since I left.”

The words fill the dim interior of my BMW as I cruise down Main Street. I pass one car after another, most of them being driven by someone who was my age or even a little older. “Back when I was in high school, there was hardly any traffic after dark. If you did encounter another car, it was driven by teenagers, or meant there was an after-school event. And the buildings. It’s hard to believe there’s enough people in this town to sustain so many!”

“There aren’t,” Lucy says from the passenger seat.

I slide a sideways glance at her. “What do you mean?”

She grimaces. “When I moved here a little over two years ago, I thought the same thing you did. That this was a thriving community, but it’s not.” She points out the window. “About thirty percent of those buildings are empty. The owners couldn’t make a go of it. And when a new business opens up, more often than not they decide to build something new, rather than move into an abandoned building. It’s a problem small communities all over the country are struggling with.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I agree, but apparently it’s cheaper to create something brand new than to bring older buildings, especially the ones at the heart of town that have been around for a few decades, up to code.” Lucy blows out a heavy sigh. “It seems horribly wasteful to me.”

“Ah.” That does change things. “Still, it’s so much busier than it used to be.”

A pair of white flashing lights and a large reflective triangle catches my eyes and I ease off the accelerator as I try to figure out what type of vehicle I’m approaching. It’s not a tow truck or an emergency vehicle. I switch lanes and see the bobbing head of a trotting horse. The flashing lights are attached to an Amish buggy.

“Some things haven’t changed.” I switch lanes and speed past the buggy. “I haven’t seen one of those in years.”

My original plan was to return to the coffee shop where I met Lucy and take her back to her car, but now I’m strangely reluctant to part company with her.

A faint grumbling smile comes from the passenger seat and Lucy moves one hand over her stomach. I hide my smile.

“I’m hungry,” I say. “You?”

A shy smile flits around the corners of Lucy’s mouth. Even in the dimly lit car, I see the pretty blush staining her cheeks.

God, I don’t remember the last time I spoke to someone who blushes as sweetly as Lucy. In Los Angeles, everyone is too self-centered and full of themselves to be embarrassed by anything.

“I could eat,” she responds.

Back when I was in high school, the only places open this late at night were fast food franchises and gas stations. At eighteen those were great, but these days, my stomach prefers something a bit more … digestible.

Plus, Lucy has been fantastic today, not only agreeing to be my fake girlfriend, but also not complaining about spending the bulk of the evening at the hospital, talking about the truly morbid topic of what should happen with our vital organs after we die.

And she didn’t complain when Sheila and Jenna gave her the third degree.

The least I can do to repay her is by feeding her something better than a drive-thru cheeseburger. I wince inwardly. This has been one hell of a first date…

Besides, the more we’re seen out and about in nice, date-like places, the more my career benefits from this ridiculous relationship. Right?

Near the edge of town, I spot a fancy-looking Italian place. The few cars in the parking lot look like they belong to employees, but since the sign in the door says the place is open, I downshift and turn into the drive.

Lucy straightens and leans against her seatbelt. “Oh. I’ve been meaning to try this place out.”

That’s a good sign. “It wasn’t here when I left. Is it any good?”

“That’s what I’ve been told.” Lucy waits until I pull into the space beside the one that’s been reserved for handicap parking before unsnapping her seatbelt. “They only opened a few months ago. Most of what they serve is locally sourced.”

I grimace. As a rule, I don’t have any problem with locally sourced businesses; in fact a few of my favorite places in California get all their ingredients from local farmers. But that’s California. Wisconsin is famous for its dairy farms, which is great for locally sourced cheese, milk, butter and beer. Not exactly date food.

Still, whatever this place serves has to be better than chicken nuggets and milkshakes.

The interior of the restaurant is every bit as deserted as the parking lot was. The only other diners are a foursome of elderly women sitting near an ornate fireplace who look like they’re having a great time.

My hand rides low on Lucy’s back as we follow the host, a tall, lanky guy in his mid-twenties and about three months past his last haircut through the dining room. He stops at a booth that’s on the opposite side of the room from the older women.

“How’s this?” he asks in his nasal, northern Wisconsin accent.

“It’s fine.” I slide into the seat across from Lucy as she slips out of her jacket.

The guy nods, the movement causing his hair to flop forward, and nearly obscures his eyes. “A waiter will be here in just a second or two,” he says as he starts ambling toward the kitchen.

“Wow.” I grin sarcastically as I reach for one of the menus lying on the table. “Talk about a livewire.”

Lucy casts a glance at the man’s retreating back before turning her attention to her menu. “Deacon Smythe. Nice guy. Cute.”

An unfamiliar emotion, one that’s hot and bitter, stabs through me. I’ve never been the jealous type, but Lucy barely looks at me and here she is thinking some other guy is cute.

“Looks aren’t everything.” The words sound a bit more peevish than I intend.

If Lucy thinks the comment strange, she doesn’t let on.

“Deacon has a lot going for him, but he also has a lot on his plate.” Lucy scans her food options. “Oh, I think I’ll have the lasagna. He’s trying to put himself through school. I think he’s studying engineering or chemistry, something like that, and works at least two jobs, three unless he quit one when he started working here.”

“How do you know him so well?”

“His mom, Ellen, works for my boss, Dr. Collins, part time. Once a week Deacon picks her up and takes her out for a picnic lunch. He’s a real sweetheart.”

“Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to ask you, how did you come to work for Dr. Collins?”

“Luck, mostly. I went to college in Green Bay and gave myself one week after graduation to relax before hitting the job sites.”

The waitress, a plain brunette with kind eyes, places two glasses of water and a basket of piping hot, complimentary rolls on the table and takes our orders. Lasagna for Lucy. The trout special for me.

“Go on,” I urge Lucy when the waitress turns away from the table.

“Dr. Collins’ old office manager was weeks away from retiring and posted that there was going to be an opening. I knew just how important Fletcher Hospital was, so I thought there would be a ton of applicants who were more qualified than me, but my mom pointed out that just going for the interview would be a good experience.”

“And obviously you got the job.” I spread butter on one of the rolls.

Lucy shakes her head. “I didn’t.”

“But you’re working there.”

“Now,” she agrees. “But after the interviews, they hired a different person, an older woman with years of experience, and I went back to job hunting. Three months later they called and said the woman hadn’t worked out and was I still interested. I didn’t think twice.”

“Any trouble adjusting to life in a small town?” Green Bay isn’t as massive as Los Angeles, but it’s still considerably bigger than this town.

Lucy sips her water. “No. I love this place. It suits me.”

“Why don’t you tell Suzie to take a long walk off a short bridge when she goes all Bridezilla on you?”

For the first time since we left the hospital, Lucy looks uncomfortable. She stares down at the table and fiddles with the silverware.

“I …” she starts. “Probably I should, but each time I try, the words don’t come out. All I can think about is that tomorrow is her wedding day. Her big day. It’s supposed to be magical. Everything she’s ever wanted, and if that means she’s a little irrational right now, well, I guess I can put up with that.”

The waitress reappears beside our table. I wait until she places the steaming plates on the table and disappears back into the kitchen before responding to Lucy.

I shake my head wonderingly. “You’re a better person than me. I went to school with Suzie. Back than I thought she was a demanding, self-centered bitch. From what I saw at the coffee shop, nothing’s changed.”

Lucy cuts into her lasagna. “She’s not that bad.”

I sample my trout. It’s good, as good as anything I would have ordered in California, and the portion is nearly twice as big, even though it probably costs a fraction of what I’d normally pay.

“Sweetie,” I say to Lucy. “She was standing in the middle of a busy coffee shop, screaming at you about cupcakes. Even in Los Angeles, where there’s ten divas on every street corner, that’s considered bad behavior.”

“I don’t think Suzie realizes what she’s doing,” Lucy says. “She’s so wrapped up in her own life, her own issues, that there’s not enough awareness left over for her to realize how her actions, her words, impact other people. If she did, she’d change. Deep down, I think she’s a decent person, she just forgets sometimes.”

If anyone else said that, I’d think they were just giving me lip service, but there’s genuine warmth in Lucy’s voice. She’s sincere.

The memory of how she rushed to my side and helped me find some common ground with Nathan, how gentle and sweet she’d been while dealing with the boy, floods back to me, filling me with a warmth I’ve never experienced before.

I set my fork down and study her.

I get along with most people, but as a rule, the longer I’m in someone’s company, the less enamored I become with them. Lucy is different. It’s like I can’t get enough of her quiet, sweet personality, and now I can’t help wishing that some of her sweetness, her light, her innate ability to see the good in people, would rub off on me.

Still refusing to so much as look at me, Lucy shovels a forkful of lasagna into her mouth and starts chewing.

Her hair falls forward, softening the angle of her jaw, instantly making her appear more feminine, more approachable. An unexpected pang of desire shoots through me.

My gaze lands on her pretty, unpainted Cupid’s bow mouth and I remember how it tasted, how those lips parted as she accepted my kiss and my hand spasms on my fork as I realize that I’d sell my soul for a second chance at that kiss.