Page 97 of One Last Rodeo

“It’ll go great,” Isla says without hesitation. “You’ll fix it this time. You’ve got this.”

I know I will. I don’t take cases I’m not confident in. Still, I smile at her so that she doesn’t worry about me. And that’s the moment when the doors to the bar open, and my heart jumps straight into my throat.

Daniela walks in first with Lawson at her side. Behind them are her sister-in-law, Regan, and Regan's husband, Hayes Walker—my former boss and the chief of Whitewood Creek Community Hospital. And bringing up the rear, like some cruel punchline, is Jensen with Micah.

“What the hell is he doing here?” I hiss, leaning toward Isla. “They’re riding tomorrow. Shouldn't they be in Charlotte already?”

Isla’s gaze flicks from me to Jensen and back again, curiosity sparking.

Dani clearly hasn’t filled her in on my…situation. And now that I think about it, I haven’t updated Dani on what happened in San Jose. Or on the fact that it wasn’t just one in Denver, but that it was several times, including me going to Tennessee with him.

The look in Dani's eyes when they meet mine tells me everything. She didn't know he'd be here either. She’s just as caught off guard as I am.

“Hey, Catalina. Nice to see you again,” Lawson says, opening his arms wide when he reaches our table.

I stand and step into his hug and when he bends down, he whispers in my ear, "Sorry about this. Hayes didn't know Jensen was coming to town tonight either."

I’ve always liked my brother-in-law. More than liked him. He’s good in the quiet, steady way—the kind of man who doesn’t need to be loud to be good. And he’s perfect for Dani. Even though I’d cautioned herstronglyagainst getting involved with another boss—her history hadn’t been kind to that pattern—Lawson is the best man she’s ever dated and has proven to be reliable and respectful.

“Nice to see you too,” I say, forcing a smile.

He smiles and steps aside, and I make my way down the line of guests—hugging Dani, Regan, Hayes—before ending at Jensen.

He looks about as uncomfortable as I feel, which makes everything worse. Because I'm the reason he's uncomfortable. I’m the reason he’s not his usual, happy, easy-going self.

He clears his throat and gives me a small nod. “Hello, Doctor Alba.”?

I hate how that title sounds in his mouth. We’re not at work. I wish he’d just call me Catalina. Or even, Kitty... Except I told him not to. I was clear, ‘from now on I’ll be nothing but your doctor to you.’

It’s my own fault. All of this is.

“Hello, Jensen.”

His hands flex at his sides, subtle but unmistakable, like it physically pains him not to reach for me the way he used to.

I know physical touch is his love language. A crueler version of myself might’ve taken satisfaction in that. Might’ve imagined suggesting he date my little sister instead since on paper they’remore compatible. But the truth is, the ugly, possessive truth: that the idea of Jensen being with anyone but me hurts.

Jealousy.Jealous over a guy who isn’t even looking my sister’s way. Jealous of a guy I pushed away. Jealous of a guy I let believe I was going on a date with my ex-fiancé simply because I thought it’d be easier if he moved on.

It wasn’t without reason,I remind myself. He did hurt me. And I hurt him back. That’s not maturity. That’s me not dealing with my own shit.

I tear my gaze away from him and turn back to the group who are currently watching our entire exchange with way too much curiosity.

I hate attention like this. I hate relationship drama. I hate that weird space where nothing was official, but everything hurts anyway.

It shouldn’t feel like a breakup. We weren’t dating. We were friends... with benefits. Oh God, I think I might have been in my first ever friends with benefits arrangement and not even realized it. Which, frankly, is a good reminder that Jensen and I were never in a relationship to begin with. He never said the words.

This shouldn’t matter.

I know it does.

“So,” I say lightly, forcing a smile, “drinks?”

Everyone agrees, chairs scrape, conversation resumes. Thankfully, the rest of dinner unfolds more easily. The music turns up around us. More guests filter in as the night darkens. Appetizers come out—small plates featuring the egg farm’s chickens in about a dozen impressive ways. I even manage to relax a fraction.

My shoulders loosen every time I don’t have to look in Jensen’s direction. But when I do, that familiar heat slides down my spine.

He’s not drinking tonight, which tells me the margaritas at my parents’ house were driven by his pain. He broke his sobriety because I pushed him away. I won’t take responsibility for that. He made the decision. It’s still disappointing.