Rewind It Back (Windy City, #5)

by Liz Tomforde

My heart flutters like it used to before I remember everything that happened. Because I may have loved Rio DeLuca once, but I don’t anymore.

“I pick a song when something cool or important happens so I can remember it. Then when I want to relive a moment, I rewind it back and start the song from the beginning.”

He lives next door…again. What the hell did I do to earn this kind of bad luck?

As much as I don’t want to, I know what I have to do, and I’m not in a position where I can be above begging.

Sweat trickles from his forehead, rolling over those dark brown waves. You’d think his hair was black unless you’ve been close enough to run your fingers through it.

I clearly didn’t give myself the chance to really look at him the other night. It was too dark out. I was in shock, too stunned by seeing him in person after all these years to really see him.

Dark hair. Olive undertone to his skin. Height that was genetically gifted and ridges of muscles that were hard-earned.

I’ve always been attracted to Rio DeLuca, and it pisses me off that nothing has changed. Even during those awkward early years when everyone else saw him as a friend, I always saw him as more. Then he had himself a glow-up in the middle of high school, shot up about six inches, and finally those other girls saw what I always did.

But this version of him—twenty-seven years old and bulked up from the NHL—feels c...

“Well, I’m going to leave you two to whatever the hell is making this moment so awkward,”

“Fuck, Hallie, before Saturday, I thought I’d never see you again.” The words come out with a painful edge, and I’d be lying if I said they didn’t slip past my armor and land a hit.

“Watch yourself, Hart. I believe the term you’re looking for is classic.” I try not to let the smile tick up on my lips, but it finds its way there for a brief moment. “What’s up with the classic boombox?” He shrugs. “It still works. Why replace what’s not broken? And the guys can give me shit for it all they want, but I’m the only one on the team with good taste in music.” “You’re welcome for that.”

“Like you think this is it. As if she were the one who got away, and this is our second chance. It’s not going to happen, so get that out of your minds. Trust me, too much bad happened between us in the past for there to be any good between us now.”

My wish is the same as it’s been all year. It’s the same thing I wish for every time I pluck a dandelion from some grass, see a falling star in the sky, or notice when it’s 11:11 on the clock.

“You wasted a TLC song on Kevin Gross? Wow.”

“Well, maybe that was the first time you were told, but I know for a fact it wasn’t the first time someone liked you.” My eyes feel like they’re going to pop out of my head with how quickly they widen. Does he mean himself or someone else? My heart is thundering in my chest and if I were braver, I’d ask him what he means. But I’m not. I don’t ask for clarification and instead, decide to overthink that single sentence for the rest of my life.

So fucking hazel. I almost forgot how pretty they are, how they lean more green than brown depending on the light. How they’d screw shut if we were watching a scary movie together. How they’d softly close when I’d kiss her mouth. How they’d turn dark, her pupils blowing out when I’d kiss the rest of her.

I still remember the first time we kissed. I remember the last time too, and that memory snaps me out of the stupid little spell that naturally lives between us.

As she texts, I watch as she slips her short dark hair behind one of her ears, giving me a perfect view of her face and neck. The soft angle of her jaw. The cute slope of her nose. Her full brows and light freckles. “I love your hair like this.” Fuck me. Did I say that out loud?

What am I doing? Either I want to hate her or I don’t. I swear, I’m going to need someone else to start sitting in on these meetings to keep me from slipping up and saying stupid, honest shit.

Having this meeting with her, of all people, is a special kind of fucked-up.

“So, what do you say? For the sake of my house and your job, should we try to be friends?” Friends. I could laugh. Seems an impossible stretch from where we are now.

“Friends,” I agree. Feels wrong. Tastes like a lie.

“Good night, friend.” He grimaces. “Yep. Don’t love that.”

As he pushes off the door, letting me past him, his flannel shirt opens, allowing me to catch a peek of black ink sprawling over part of the left side of his chest and ribs. Now, there’s something I haven’t seen before.

“Do any of these draw your eye? Do you see anything that you’d like to wake up to every morning?” Waiting for his response, I pull my attention from the books to him. Only to find him already looking at me. “Do you still listen to music?” he asks out of nowhere.

“You’ve always had good taste, Hallie. I like your vision. I trust you.”

He wants me to design the room that he and his future wife might share. Where they’ll sleep next to each other. Where they’ll sleep with each other. Fucking lovely.

The chilly Chicago breeze hits me as soon as we’re outside. Hallie crosses her bare arms over her chest and, like instinct, I peel off my flannel and hold it out to her. “I don’t want your shirt.” “It’s freezing out. Take it or we’re going right back inside so I can punch Ken Doll straight in the face for calling you Hal.”

“Why are all you men so goddamn dramatic?”

“Don’t let him call you that,” I say quietly. “He doesn’t fucking know you.”

“Yeah, Hal. I still know you. And you still know me. Better than anyone.” I watch her throat move through a swallow. “He’s never called me that before. I think he thought you were some random guy so he was pretending to mark his territory.” “Yeah, well you’re not his, so tell him to keep his hands to himself too.” Her eyes drop to my mouth. “I’m not yours either.” We’ll see.

“Get fucked, DeLuca.” I smile as I open the door. “Would love to. You just let me know when and where, Hart.”

So, I make sure not to talk. Instead, I do the one thing that’s always acted as our communication. I turn on some music.

I’m not after only one thing from Hallie. I’m after everything with her, but still, it feels like he’s reminding me to not go there, though Luke has no idea of my feelings for his sister.

“I’m the fun uncle, Hal. They knew what they were signing up for when they dropped them off here.”

always used to. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispers a few moments later. “I’m sorry for stealing your Saturday night.” “No, you’re not.” I peek at him out of the corner of my eye, and his smile turns so proud. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m not sorry at all.”

Rio wraps himself around me in a hug that’s firm and comforting and desperate.

each other longer than friends should. We hold each other longer than two people who claim to still be hurt by each other should.

When he nudges his nose against mine, his lips slightly brush my own, but he doesn’t kiss me yet. He teases. He silently asks for permission. “Hallie,” he whispers against my mouth. It comes out pained yet urgent, as if there’s more he wants to say but doesn’t. Like he’s begging and apologizing all at the same time.

This is thoughtful in a way that’s overwhelming. Thoughtful in a way that’s almost uncomfortable because it’s been so long that someone’s thought of me and my needs that I’m out of practice with being looked after.

It’s almost testing in the way he says it with his voice all gruff, paired with a slight flex of his jaw. His hands are once again tucked in his pockets, like a physical manifestation of the restraint he’s trying to possess.

The classic battle of the head versus the heart.

“You single, Hal?” I finally give him the long-awaited answer, nodding to tell him yes. “Good.” He takes a slow predatorial step towards me, tone sharp and leaving no room for question. “Because we aren’t fucking friends.”

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed to let people know how hard you’re willing to work to get what you want.”

Even when we’re fighting, even when I think about all the shitty things from the past, being with her feels like…home.

There’s this nagging part of me that’s questioning whether the homesickness I’ve felt for years now has been for Boston or if it’s actually been for her.

Hallie can call this a work meeting all she wants, but I’ll call it as it is. It’s a date. A chance to see if this thing could be real again.

I prepare myself for her to tell me something to the effect of “stop designing your house with me in mind” or “stop trying to dig up old memories.” But what she says instead is, “This could’ve been an email.”

I’ve never been known the way she knew me, and it’s becoming evident that hasn’t changed one bit.