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I force a polite smile at Mrs. Trott, eager to get out of the foyer before more curious guests wander over to see what all the fuss is about.

“Can I have the key to my room?” I ask, the words coming out more clipped than I’d intended.

Mrs. Trott blanches, the warmth in her smile faltering at the arctic edge in my voice.

“Of course.” She smiles shakily, hurrying behind the small reception desk in the lobby. “Here you go. It’s the Cedarwood Room. Just up the stairs on the third floor to your left.” She hands me the key. “I hope the room is to your liking. Unfortunately, with the reunion this week and a few tourists in town, we’re fully booked, so we won’t be able to switch rooms.”

Mrs. Trott looks suddenly uneasy, as though she isn’t quite sure what she did to offend me, only that she did somehow.

Now I feel like crap. Great. Not even an hour back in this town, and I already feel like a complete asshole. I had figured it’d take at least a day for that to happen.

“I’m sure the room is lovely,” I say, forcing a smile as convincing as a tax audit.

Turning away from Mrs. Trott, I head toward the staircase. Sienna falls into step beside me, lifting my trolley bag as we make our way to the top floor.

“Guess you still haven’t learned how to make friends, huh?” Sienna mutters under her breath.

I glance back over my shoulder and find Mrs. Trott still standing behind the desk, looking worse for wear.

“Guess some things never change,” I reply quietly. Then something Mrs. Trott said begins to register. “Wait. Since when does Fairhope get tourists?”

Sienna frowns as we reach the last landing and sets my suitcase back onto its four wheels.

“I take it you haven’t been to town yet.” I shake my head. “A lot has changed in Fairhope. It’s not the same little town we grew up in.” Her face grows somber. “Not that the town we grew up in was all that great to begin with.” My frown mirrors hers. “Anyway.” She parks the trolley beside my door and tilts her head toward it. “Drop your bags, do whatever you need to do, then meet me downstairs at the bar for a drink. I’ll tell you all about how Fairhope’s been gentrified.”

“Okay.” I nod. “I’ll be down in twenty.”

“Perfect. I’ll hopefully be on my second whiskey by then.” She gives me a wave before disappearing down the stairs.

I’m just about to slide the key into the lock when I hear someone suck in a sharp breath.

“Holy shit.” My back goes ramrod straight, every hair on the back of my neck standing on end. “Max Morgan? Is that you?”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Double shit.

I take a slow breath before turning around. Standing there, in all her American beauty queen glory, is Jordan Richfield. She’s flaunting her usual ensemble—red hair, green eyes, designer clothes, and the same villainous fake smile.

“It really is!” she says with a laugh, as if running into me were the happiest coincidence in the world.

“Jordan.” I give a brief nod, making no effort whatsoever to smile back.

“Wow.” Her gaze sweeps over my heels, my clothes, and the expensive handbag hanging from my shoulder. “You look…” She pauses, her smile faltering slightly when her focus settles on my face. “Good. You look really good.”

I know she’s waiting for me to return the compliment. However, Jordan has been told she looks beautiful every day of her life. She doesn’t need the ego boost from me. And she sure as shit will never get one.

“Guess we’re neighbors again, huh?” she says with a laugh. “What are the odds?”

Again, I don’t answer. Not because I have nothing to say, but because with her standing so close, studying me intently, it feels like the walls are slowly closing in. As if she were sucking every ounce of oxygen out of this damn place and refusing to leave any for me.

And then I see it. The red fucking string tied around her wrist. The same one every Red wore, replicating the red scrunchie Heather Chandler famously wore in the movie.

My blood turns to ice. Everything else blurs. All I can see is that color. Red. Red. Red.

Jordan, of course, has no idea where my mind just went. That would require caring about someone other than herself.

“I see life has treated you well.” Her smile widens, though her green stare displays far more envy than warmth. “Rumor has it you’re some big-shot author now.” I remain silent. “I’m kind of a big deal myself.” She laughs, clearly unwilling to let the silence stop her. “I’m ACC’s weather girl up in Portland. You can’t drive five miles without seeing my face on a billboard.” She flashes her perfectly whitened teeth. “We should catch up. Have dinner or something. Seeing as we’re the only celebrities in town.”

I’d rather saw off my own arm and eat it.