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I ignore the question, groping around for my glasses. I can’t see a thing without them.

“Here.” Gabe shoves the plastic frames into my hands.

I put them on, and the whole scene comes into focus. Gabe stands up and holds out a hand to me. He’s frowning, but he’s still ridiculously handsome.

Famous-musician handsome, some may say. Actually, some do say. A lot do say.

All six feet, three inches of Gabe stare back at me. His dark hair is longer than it was the last time I saw him, with strands folding over his forehead. Granted, I usually see him on the internet these days. Who knows how reliable those pictures are, with Photoshop and red-carpet photographers making sure they get him at his best angle.

Who am I kidding? The man doesn’t have a bad angle. A fact I was reminded of when I got up close and personal with the abs he’s sporting underneath his crewneck sweatshirt, thanks to my tumble from grace . . . or the garland shelf, as it were.

Gabe’s eyes are the same. Brown with flecks of evergreen, framed by lashes that are longer than what should be legal and set deep above his crooked nose and right-angle jawline.

I look away. I refuse to be caught gaping at him, to drink him in like he’s toasty apple cider on a cold winter night. I’ve spent the past five years packaging up my feelings for Gabe. He made his choice. Music over me. Fame over life in a small town.

What cuts the deepest is that he had me believing he was choosing me. I told him to think it over, but he told me I was the dream. He kissed me. But instead of starting our life together after graduation, I got a text saying he was on his way to Nashburg. He said he wanted to talk, but what was there to say? He made his choice, and drawing out what could have been between us would have only been more painful. I wished him good luck, and that was it. Our communication petered out, admittedly because I stopped responding to his messages. It was too hard. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve talked in the past five years.

He went on to win the whole Hidden Gems competition that year, which meant he got a recording contract. He launched himself into superstardom. He’s a household name now. Gone are the days when he was my Gabe. I barely know him anymore.

Which is for the best. Because I still refuse to be with someone with a volatile career like that. And Gabe made his choice.

But does the man have to be so good-looking?

I scramble to my feet, not taking his outstretched hand. “I didn’t expect to see you here. In town. Around.”

Stop babbling, Beth.

He frowns. His eyes, which used to look at me with warmth and kindness, hold a hint of caution—like he doesn’t know how to be around me.

That makes two of us, buddy.

“I promised my mom I’d spend Thanksgiving with her in Dasher Valley this year,” he says.

“Oh. Well . . .” I search for something to say. Something, anything normal. I don’t need to make a scene in the middle of Craft Corner. Any more of a scene than my tumble, that is. “That’s nice of you.”

There. Good. Cordial and civil.

“Guess you can choose the small-town life when you put your mind to it, huh?”

Flying fruitcakes, what’s wrong with me?

The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them. They’re petty and vindictive, and I hate myself for them. I hate myself for still being hurt by what Gabe did to me five years ago.

Why’d I have to go there? After all these years, why am I confronting him in a craft store on Black Friday?

It dawns on me that this is the longest I’ve spent face-to-face with Gabe since our last dinner at Bubba’s. Since then, I’ve avoided him when he’s in Dasher Valley, which hasn’t been often. Maybe my snarky treatment of him has been a long time coming—this is just the first opportunity I’ve had to lay into him. I wish I could tell you it makes me feel better. But yeah. Nope.

Gabe’s brown eyes harden, and he juts out his chin. “Really? You want to go there. Here. Now?”

“No.” I shake my head, clutching my garland like a shield even as he reads my mind. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Then why did you?”

“I wasn’t thinking. Just never mind.” I push my glasses more firmly up onto my nose, daring a quick glance at him.

He’s staring back, but he’s wearing a mask over his expression. I used to be able to read him so well. Now, not so much.

“I called you, Bethy.” His low, serious tone crashes into me, and the use of my old nickname makes my pulse pop. “You didn’t answer.”