January methodically filled three more drink orders before she remembered how to breathe. But come on—the last time she’d seen Finn had been at Asher’s funeral, where he’d steadfastly ignored her presence, and the time before that, he’d crushed her feelings into dust. Now he was here in her favorite hangout like it was no big deal, calling her by that silly nickname only he used and looking hot enough to require a legal disclaimer stamped across his freaking forehead?

On second thought, maybe she hadn’t remembered how to breathe just yet.

“Whoa.” Kennedy’s olive green eyes widened beneath the heavy fringe of her bangs as she looked up from the row of tequila shots she’d just poured. “Are you okay?”

“Yep. I’m great.” The answer shoveled out of January’s mouth by default, probably much the same as Kennedy’s snort in response, and dammit. Her friend was as street savvy as she was sharp-eyed. January wasn’t going to get away with anything less than full disclosure.

She adjusted the dark red half-apron knotted over her jeans before helping Kennedy arrange the shot glasses onto a tray in a precise row. “You didn’t tell me the hot IPA guy at the end of the bar was Finn Donnelly.” She waited out her friend’s apologetic ooookay-style pause for a beat, then two before adding, “He plays center for the Cajun Rage. They won the Cup a few weeks ago. We had all seven playoff games on every screen in the bar.”

“Ah, hockey. Well, that explains the ridiculous muscles,” Kennedy said, turning to hand off the tray full of bad ideas to a passing waitress. “I take it you know the guy.”

Hello, gargantuan understatement. But since January couldn’t exactly come off with if by ‘know him’ you mean ‘truly, desperately, deeply lusted after him all the way through high school until he shot me down cold, had a huge blowout fight with our other best friend, then went completely radio silent even when said best friend suddenly died in the line of duty’ then yes, I know the shit out of Finn Donnelly, she went with, “What makes you think that?”

“Aside from the fact that he’s looked over here three times in as many minutes and your cheeks are doing a fabulous impression of a five-alarm fire, you mean?” Kennedy asked, and January’s laugh in reply was as soft as it was humorless.

“Believe me, he’s not looking over here. And yes, Finn and I went to high school together, so I, um, used to know him.”

One corner of Kennedy’s merlot-colored mouth kicked up into a smirk as she dropped her voice to a volume too quiet for any of the nearby patrons to hear. “Are we talking like, you knew him in passing, you’d say ‘hi, how’s it going’ on the way to algebra, or did you know him-know him, like vaginally?”

Heat shot down January’s spine at the thought of Finn anywhere near her girly bits, and God, so much for her cheeks getting back to a passably normal color. “Neither, actually.”

“Really?” Kennedy opened one of the glass-topped coolers built in beneath the bar, popping the tops of two bottles of Budweiser for the couple to her left. “This guy—Finn, right? He might not be my type, but I didn’t call him Hot IPA Guy because he looked like he was running a fever. Between that dark, curly hair and that bad-boy smile he’s got going on, he’s pretty lickable, and like it or not, your blush is giving you away. You two seriously never hooked up?”

She and Finn in the kitchen at his going away party…impulsively kissing him after one beer too many…the hot, hungry slide of his mouth on hers as—just for a breath—he’d pulled her against the hard length of his body and kissed her back…

January swiped a dish towel over the bar even though the glossy stretch of wood in front of her was already spotless. “No. Finn definitely doesn’t see me as hookup material. He and I used to be best friends.” She cleared her throat before adding, “With Asher.”

“Asher Gibson?” In an instant, Kennedy’s expression lost its sassy edge. She might not have been raised in Remington like a lot of their crowd, but she’d been around everyone from Station Seventeen long enough to have known exactly who Asher was. Along with what had happened to him. “I didn’t know you two were that close.”

January’s heart squeezed. They had been close. Right up until the night she’d kissed Finn, and then… “It’s kind of a long story,” she said, turning to rearrange the boxes of straws and cocktail napkins beneath the bar.

“I’m sorry.” Kennedy’s tone, usually full of brass and devoid of bullshit, was shockingly soft. “I didn’t mean to push a sore subject.”

Scooping in a deep breath, January shook her head. Asher would’ve been pissed purple at anyone tiptoeing around his memory, and anyway, the debacle with Finn was in the past. Just because he was sitting halfway across the bar instead of halfway across the country didn’t change that.

“It’s really more of a closed subject. At least where Finn is concerned.”

January paused to fill a few drink orders and deliver a plate of hot wings to a pair of women sitting at the bar. Although Kennedy had kept equally busy, January could feel the questions still brewing in her stare, and when they finally had a lull, she nodded Kennedy over to the small service alcove by the cash register, blowing out a breath in defeat.

“When I was in the eighth grade, my dad and I moved in next door to the Gibsons. Asher and I became friends, and he already knew Finn from this hockey league they played in together. The three of us were pretty much Epoxied at the hip all through high school.”

Unable to help it, her gaze moved over the crowded bar to zero in on Finn, and God, wasn’t hockey supposed to be hard on a guy’s face?

“Anyway.” She snapped her attention back over to the alcove, rearranging the clean pint glasses stacked on one of the low shelves. “After the three of us graduated, Asher and I went to Remington University, but Finn left town so he could play minor league hockey. He was always really good, and working his way up the ranks to win the Cup was the only thing he ever wanted.”

Kennedy—being Kennedy—didn’t skip so much as a fraction of a beat. “Is that why you’re not tight anymore? Because he left to play hockey?”

“No.”

“No?” Kennedy’s dark brows shot upward, and ugh, better to just go the Band-Aid route even though January knew damn well saying everything out loud would sting.

“No. We’re not friends anymore because I kissed him like a lovesick idiot at his going away party. Asher walked in on us, and the two of them got into a fistfight.”

“Wait. Were you and Asher…” Kennedy trailed off, but January filled in the blanks easily enough.

“Oh God, no.” She punctuated the words with a shake of her head. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved the guy, but I always looked at him like a brother. I suspected once or twice that he might want more than friendship,” she admitted. “Which he clearly did, since he and Finn got into it that night over the kiss. But Asher had never said anything about it to me before the fight.”

“And you’d had a thing for Finn the whole time,” Kennedy said, and even though she was simply stating the obvious, January’s pride let out a healthy squall.

“Stupidly, as it turned out. After he and Asher went all cage match on each other, Finn told me he was just drunk, the kiss had been a huge mistake”—January paused to let Kennedy mutter a few top shelf swear words in Finn’s honor—“then he left town the next day, and I never heard from him again. Asher and I stayed friends, but not like we had been. We never talked about his feelings for me, and we definitely never talked about Finn. The whole thing ended in a pretty big mess.”

“What about when Asher died in that house fire? You and Finn didn’t even talk then?” Disbelief colored Kennedy’s voice, her forehead creasing to match, but the answer to this one was sadly just as straightforward as the rest.

“Nope. He came back to Remington for the funeral, but he avoided me like a virus outbreak and left directly afterward.”

Leaning a jeans-clad hip against the counter, Kennedy sent a furtive glance toward Station Seventeen’s usual pair of tables, her expression growing thoughtful. “So now he’s just back out of the blue?”

“For a few days, I guess,” January said, turning to grab a double order of nachos from the kitchen pass and get on with her night, once and for all. “But I’m sure he’ll blaze a fast path out of town as soon as he’s able. He’s pretty good at leaving.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of history, though. You’re sure you don’t want to air things out with him before he goes?”

The question alone took January by surprise. The “no” burning in her mouth, just begging to be said in reply?

Shocked her enough to make her hands shake.

Don’t be stupid, she chided, squaring her shoulders beneath the dark blue cotton of her tank top. “Yes. I’m sure.”

She might’ve had feelings for Finn once, and God knew there had been moments—especially after Asher had died—when she’d have given damn near anything for the chance to talk to him again. But those moments were behind her. Finn was behind her.

The best thing January could do now was to leave him there and keep moving on.

* * *

Finn stared at the ceiling, trying like fuck to reconcile the irony of being surrounded by the priciest bed sheets in all of Remington and not being able to sleep so much as a wink. But between the gut-twisting thought of going to the cemetery later today and his unexpected run-in with January last night, being able to restfully close his eyes was a definite no-go.

Especially since every time he’d tried, all he could see were the subtle yet sexy changes January had grown into over the last seven years. The flawless press of her ass against those jeans that surrendered to her curves in all the best places. The slide of her ponytail over one slim shoulder when she leaned in to place a drink on the bar. The way her heart-shaped lips gave way to a surprisingly throaty laugh every time one of her friends from Station Seventeen went over to say hello and grab another drink.

Christ, those lips. How anything that looked so sweet could feel so sinful, Finn had no idea. But in seven goddamn years, he’d never been as turned on by a kiss as he’d been by January’s, so brash and yet so full of need. He’d wanted a month with her mouth alone, to coax filthy words past those pretty lips, to feel them wrapped around his cock as she did the same to him…

Heat flared to life between his legs, making his dick stir beneath the thin material of his basketball shorts, but oh no. Hell no. He didn’t care how hot her laugh (or her mouth…or that sweet spot where her leg met the curve of her ass…or even that adorable little furrow that built between her eyebrows whenever she looked over a drink ticket) was.

January wasn’t for him. She never had been, no matter how much he’d secretly wished otherwise. Which meant he needed to start thinking with his upstairs head and stop thinking about January’s ass.

Damn, he was a terrible friend.

Grating out a curse, Finn looked at the clock on his bedside table. He wasn’t a total stranger to four thirty a.m., what with his whole mantra of I-practice-while-everyone-else-sleeps. But he hadn’t scratched his way through the minors on his good looks, and he sure as shit hadn’t made the Rage on anything less than a mountain of ass-busting work.

Reaching for the iPad he’d left next to the alarm clock, he tapped the screen to life, diving headfirst into game film. The highlights kept Finn mostly occupied until the sun made an appearance at the edges of the electronic blinds covering the windows of his suite, at which point he threw back the four-inch thick bed covers and headed for the shower. He’d come back to Remington to take the Cup to Asher’s grave, to finally make the amends that would let him move on for good. Waiting now seemed stupid.

Or at least, it did until he got to Remington Cemetery, at which point waiting seemed like a spectacular fucking plan.

Finn stared at the manicured grass and the neatly ordered headstones, unease forming a hard ball in his gut. He’d burned so much blood, sweat, and energy trying to get to this moment that he hadn’t really thought about what he’d say once he’d actually arrived. He did, however, know who he wasn’t going to say any of it in front of, so he knotted his arms over the center of his T-shirt and slid a glance at the roadside spot where Edwin stood next to him.

“I’m going to need some privacy,” Finn said, unyielding, and to his surprise, the keeper nodded.

“Right, right. I mean, as you know, I have to be able to see the Cup at all times, and of course I do prefer to be as close as possible to ensure its utmost safety, but…” He trailed off, pushing his thickly framed glasses higher on the bridge of his nose as he cleared his throat. “Since this is clearly a personal matter, I’ll just wait right over there on that bench. Would you, ah, like any help moving the Cup to a specific plot? It’s deceptively heavy, and—”

“I’m good.” Finn hated cutting the guy off. Hell, he hated everything about his current situation. But he couldn’t have what he really wanted, and this was as close as he was going to get.

This was the only way he could talk to his best friend.

His muscles tightened and squeezed as he bent down and lifted the Cup from its case in the back of the SUV he’d broken down and had the car rental place drop off at the hotel so he could do his own driving. Hefting the thing to one hip, Finn walked a path toward Asher’s grave, his work boots shushing over the dew-damp grass and his pulse knocking faster with every step.

Oh shit. He arrived at the tidily kept plot with his heart wedged in his throat. Forcing himself to focus, Finn looked down at the marker with Asher’s name, birth date, and the day he’d died inscribed in the stone, letting go of a shaky breath.

“Hey, Ash.” He shifted his weight beneath the heft of the Cup, sweat forming between his shoulder blades even though the morning sunlight hadn’t yet jacked the temperature past the low seventies. “It’s me. Finn. I’m sure you’re, uh, probably surprised to see me here. And still a little pissed off, too.”

He paused, the memory of the last words they’d ever spoken to each other spearing through his memory, and screw this. Finn had come here to make amends. He owed the guy this conversation, no matter how weird it felt that the talk was one-sided.

“Listen, I know I acted like a jackass seven years ago. I didn’t mean for any of what happened to shake out the way it did. Which isn’t an excuse,” he said, because even though Asher had taken that first swing after he’d seen Finn and January kissing, Finn had swung back, and swung hard. “I just…I handled everything really badly. I didn’t see that at the time, but after you died, I realized what a total shit I’d been, only then it was too late.”

He looked down, fighting the emotion welling in his chest. “Anyway, you always believed in me, and you were a good friend, even when I wasn’t. So I just came to say I’m sorry, and to, you know. Thank you for pushing me to never give up on my dreams. I know it doesn’t make what happened between us any better, but I brought you this.” Finn took a breath. Let it out along with three years’ worth of want and hard work. “I finally won the Cup, like you always said I would.”

Quiet settled in around him, punctuated by the occasional chirp of a bird and the low, steady drone of a lawn mower somewhere in the distance. He tried like hell to rummage up something else to say, but the harder he tried, the more awkward it felt to be standing here, yap-yapping to himself.

His stomach pitched, his shoulders beginning to ache from holding up thirty-five pounds of silver and nickel. He thought he’d feel closure—or at the very least, a budge in the heaviness that had been sitting so squarely on his shoulders ever since Asher had died. Somehow, though, this whole thing just felt clumsy and wrong, as if he’d managed to fuck things up even worse by coming here.

Jesus, he’d been an idiot to return to Remington. Asher was gone. January hated him. Bringing the Cup to Asher’s grave wouldn’t change that. Nothing would.

Finn turned on one heel with every intention of getting the hell out of this cemetery and the entire state of North Carolina. But a flash of bright yellow caught his eye from behind Asher’s gravestone, his feet carrying him closer before his brain even registered the command to move. For a second that might have been a minute or a week or a goddamn eternity for all Finn knew, he stared at the bundle of flowers that had fallen behind the heavy gray slab. The surrounding plots were unmarked, signaling their emptiness, but even if they hadn’t been, Finn would’ve known the flowers belonged to Asher.

They were lilies. January’s favorite. Identical to the ones she’d placed on Asher’s casket right after the firefighters from Station Seventeen had lowered him into the ground.

Finn’s palms went slick against the base of the Cup, and he knelt down to place it in the grass before reaching for the flowers, the paper crinkling as he scooped them up for a closer inspection. The blooms were double-wrapped in tissue paper for added protection, the stems stuck into those plastic tubes of water that made the flowers last longer, and Finn’s heart kicked hard against his ribs.

No one else would take such care with a simple bunch of flowers. But January had, just as she’d taken the time to care about Finn in high school even though he’d been an epic fuck-up, and oh hell.

Asher wasn’t the only person he owed an apology to.

Placing the lilies carefully at the foot of the gravestone in front of him, Finn steadied both his hands and his resolve. Finding his feet, he lifted the Cup, and by the time he reached the SUV, his plan was one hundred percent solid.

“Where to now?” Edwin asked, arriving at Finn’s side.

“Actually, I’d like to take the Cup someplace a little unconventional.” At Edwin’s look of sheer panic, Finn added, “Don’t worry, I promise not to do anything crazy.”

At least, he wouldn’t do anything crazy with the Cup. As for the rest of his plan?

That had surpassed crazy before he’d even pushed up from the grass.