The gleaming bottles of alcohol behind the bar winked temptingly. Neither Spencer’s mother nor Mr. Pennythistle could see Spencer from this angle. “Um, just coffee,” she decided at the last minute, not wanting to push her luck.
The bartender pivoted to the carafe and poured her a cup. As he set it in front of her, she noticed an image on the TV screen. A recent photo of Ali—the real Ali, the one who’d tried to kill Spencer and the others—dominated the top right corner. Across the bottom ran a headline that said DILAURENTIS POCONOS FIRE ANNIVERSARY: ROSEWOOD REMINISCES. Spencer shuddered. The last thing she wanted to do was reminisce about Real Ali trying to burn them alive.
A few weeks after it happened, Spencer made a conscious decision to look on the bright side—at least the terrible ordeal was over. They finally had closure, and they could begin the process of forgetting. She’d been the one to propose the Jamaica trip to her friends, even offering to help pay Emily’s and Aria’s way. “It’ll be a way for us to start fresh, forget everything,” she urged, spreading the resort brochures across the cafeteria table at lunch. “We need a trip that we can always remember.”
Famous last words. They’d never forget the trip—but not in a good way.
Someone groaned a few feet down. Spencer looked over, expecting to see an old codger in the middle of a heart attack, but instead saw a young guy with wavy brown hair, broad shoulders, and the longest eyelashes she’d ever seen.
He glanced at Spencer and gestured to the iPhone in his hand. “You don’t know what to do when this thing freezes, do you?”
One corner of Spencer’s mouth twisted into a smile. “How do you know I have an iPhone?” she challenged.
The guy lowered his phone and gave her a long, curious once-over. “No offense, but you don’t look like the kind of girl who’d walk around with anything but the best and the latest.”
“Oh really?” Spencer pressed her hand to her chest, mock-offended. “You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, you know.”
The guy stood up and dragged his barstool over to her. Up close, he was even cuter than she’d originally thought: His cheekbones were well defined, his nose ended in a cute bump on the end, and a dimple on his right cheek appeared whenever he smiled. Spencer liked his white, even, square teeth, untucked white-button down, and Converse All-Stars. Messy prepster was her favorite look.
“Okay, truth?” he said. “I asked you because you look like the only person in this place who actually owns a cell phone.” He glanced covertly at the aged population around the bar. There was a whole table of old guys in power scooters. One of them even had an oxygen tube under his nose.
Spencer snickered. “Yeah, they’re more of a rotary-dial crowd.”
“They probably still use the operator to make a call.” He pushed his phone in Spencer’s direction. “Seriously, though, do I restart or what?”
“I’m not sure . . .” Spencer stared at the screen. It was frozen on the stream for 610 AM, the local sports station. “Oh, I listen to this all the time!”
The boy looked at her skeptically. “You listen to sports radio?”
“It calms me down.” Spencer sipped her coffee. “It’s nice to hear people talking about sports instead of politics.” Or Alison, she silently added in her head. “Plus I’m a Phillies fan.”
“Did you listen to the World Series?” the guy asked.
Spencer leaned toward him. “I could have gone to the World Series. My dad has season tickets.”
He frowned. “Why didn’t you?”
“I donated them to a charity that helps inner-city kids.”
The boy scoffed. “Either you’re an extreme do-gooder or you’ve got a really guilty conscience.”
Spencer flinched, then straightened up. “I did it because it looks good on college applications. But if you play your cards right, maybe I’ll take you next season.”
The guy’s eyes twinkled. “Let’s hope they make it.”
Spencer held his gaze for a moment, her pulse speeding up. He was definitely flirting, and she definitely liked it. She hadn’t felt this much of a spark for anyone since she’d broken up with Andrew Campbell last year.
Her companion sipped from his glass of beer. When he set the glass back on the bar, Spencer quickly grabbed a coaster and placed it under it. Then she wiped the edge of the glass with a napkin to keep it from dripping.
The guy watched with amusement. “Do you always tidy glasses of people you don’t know?”
“It’s a pet peeve,” Spencer admitted.
“Everything has to be just so, doesn’t it?”
“I like things done my way.” Spencer appreciated the double-entendre. Then she stuck out her hand. “I’m Spencer.”
He shook, his grip strong. “Zach.”
The name resonated in Spencer’s mind. She took in his high cheekbones, his cultured way of speaking, and his suddenly familiar steel-blue eyes. “Wait. Zach as in Zachary?”
He curled his lip. “Only my dad calls me that.” Then he retracted, suddenly suspicious. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m having dinner with you tonight. My mom and your dad are . . .” She opened her palms, too weirded out to say the word dating.
It took Zach a moment to digest what she said. “You’re one of the daughters?”
“Yep.”
He stared at her. “Why do you look familiar?”
“I knew Alison DiLaurentis,” Spencer admitted, gesturing toward the TV. The story about Ali’s death was still on the screen. Wasn’t there more important news to obsess over?