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couldn’t suppress a huge grin at the sight, even knowing he probably looked like a total doofus.
    At long last, he could point to visible evidence of what he’d managed to achieve. All these people were arriving for the first May Day Celebration Committee meeting, to plan for an event the city could hold only because he’d squeezed extra funds from the City Council after over three years of arguments and pleas. An event that would draw locals and tourists alike to Niceville’s downtown and kick off his effort to revive the area’s economy. An event that would serve as a personal celebration of his greatest accomplishment, one no one understood but him.
    After almost twenty years, he’d managed to clear the stench of failure from his lungs. The air smelled cleaner. The chatter he heard from the arriving committee members sounded sweeter. More cheerful. Even the colors looked more vivid.
    One color in particular, actually. A flash of brightness came bobbing in from the doorway, almost entirely obscured by a tall blond woman walking ahead of it. He craned his neck, trying to figure out what source of light had caught his eye. Then the blonde moved to the side, and he could finally see. His gaze focused on a head of coppery red hair and a pale, dimpled face.
    He froze, unable to breathe for a long, painful second.
    Helen. Former schoolmate. One-time lover. To his shame, one mediocre time at that.
    Helen, the woman who had unwittingly served as the catalyst for his recent successes.
    Helen, his greatest regret of the past year.
    Chatting with the blonde and not looking his way at all, she selected a seat at the end of a back row. From what he could tell, she hadn’t changed much in the last ten or so months. She still appeared soft, all curves and gentle, round warmth. Just like at the bar, she wore a knit dress—though this one revealed a lot less cleavage than the one he remembered—along with leggings and a pair of flat Mary Janes. Her fiery mane of red curls hung maybe an inch longer than he recalled, barely brushing the shoulders of that dress. And as he watched, she pushed the frames of her horn-rimmed glasses onto the bridge of her nose, precisely as he’d seen her do that night.
    Helen. Still lovely. Still exuding intelligence and lively enthusiasm.
    Their encounter nearly a year ago should have been all about her. Even through a haze of self-disgust and frustration, he’d noticed how she shone in a crowd. But he’d needed a way out of his own head more than he’d wanted the possibility of a real connection with a woman.
    So he’d used her. Used sex to distract himself from his failures, in a grim repetition of old patterns he’d tried so hard to break. And afterward, he’d looked down at Helen sprawled across his bed—all tousled red curls and pale, velvety flesh, the embodiment of his secret dreams—and known he’d fucked up. Big-time. Because a man wanted to give a woman like her the world, and he couldn’t give her anything. Not even a decent romp in bed, and certainly not a man worth her attention and energy. So he’d turned her away, hurting her. Hurting himself.
    She’s still a woman who deserves more than you can offer , an insidious voice whispered inside his head. A whiff of that familiar stench drifted his way again, and he shook his head hard to remove it from his nostrils.
    No. That wasn’t true anymore. Now he could offer her something. An apology. An explanation. Above all else, a man worthy of her time.
    What would happen between them without alcohol and despair muddying their interactions? Would they enjoy each other’s company? Would she accept his apology? Could the two of them make a fresh start and see where it led?
    He didn’t know. But he could find out. Right now.
    Someone caught his arm as he strode down the rows of seats. Reluctantly, he turned to face the obstacle in his path.