“You sure you won’t come, Shi?” Violet asked.
Evelyn was watching me, her smile not touching her eyes.
“I have too much work to do,” I said. “But go. Have fun. Be safe.”
“Yes, Mom,” Evelyn said with a laugh and pulled Violet away.
That afternoon, I came home from school to find Bibi in the kitchen squeezing lemons from our tree. Sprigs of mint and basil leaves, also from our garden, lay on the cutting board.
I hugged her from behind and rested my chin on her shoulder. “Your famous, fancy lemonade. What’s the occasion?”
Bibi reached up and patted my cheek. “No occasion. The young man out back needs a break. He’s been weeding that mess for an hour.”
I groaned and retrieved a bottle of seltzer water from the fridge while Bibi added sugar to the lemon juice. “I told you not to let him in while you’re here by yourself.”
“No one wants to hurt a harmless little old lady like me.” She poured the seltzer and the lemonade over ice in two Mason jars, then added the mint and basil leaves.
No, they just might rob you blind. Literally.
“Besides,” she continued, stirring the jars, turning the delicious concoction a pale green. “I have good instincts about people. This boy is quiet. Respectful.” She handed me the glasses. “One for you, one for him. See for yourself who’s building your shed, and then tell me he’s not a perfect gentleman. Shoo.”
I obeyed, mostly because I wanted to confirm she hadn’t invited a respectful serial killer into our home.
I strode to the back of the house and stopped short at the screen door that led to our large, overgrown backyard. A tall guy—six feet, if not more—with short dark hair was bent over a rake, clearing weeds from a patch of land next to the patio. He wore jeans with a black tank, revealing powerful arms and several tattoos. The muscles of his back and shoulders slid and moved under smooth, sweat-slicked skin. A hyper realistic owl—inked in all black and white except for stark orange eyes—watched me watching him.
I stood like a dope while the guy paused in his work and arched his back, revealing a profile straight out of an artist’s manual—high cheek bones, thick brows, a long straight nose and luscious mouth with full lips.
Okay, so he’s a beautiful serial killer.
I clutched the Mason jars to my chest as I opened the screen door. The guy turned at the sound and leveled intense gray eyes on me. Eyes that—had I been that type of girl—would have knocked me on my ass. Cold and flat like slate, they warmed instantly at the sight of me. His mouth that had been a grim line, fell open a little.
Then he shut it all down, his gaze turning hard and stony as he watched me cross the patio. Shields up.
Right back at you, pal.
“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as my eye contact. “From Bibi.”
“Thanks,” the guy said. His voice deep and masculine. A man’s voice. He accepted the lemonade with relentless eye contact of his own, taking me in and not letting me go.
I tilted my chin, unwilling to break first. “I’m Shiloh.”
“Ronan.”
I blinked. Dammit.
“Ronan…Wentz?”
He nodded, taking a sip of the sparkling lemonade.
“You’re in my History class,” I said. “Your name’s in the roll book, anyway.”
Another nod. A bead of sweat trickled down the axe blade of his cheek bone, down to his square jaw.
I cleared my throat. “Where have you been?”
“Work. And now suspension.”
He said it simply enough. Everything about him seemed simple—his clothes that had seen better days, his scuffed boots, and the way he moved—directly and deliberately. Except for his eyes. There was depth there.
The kind you’d get lost in if he let you.
I snorted at my own ridiculous thoughts. Now that Ronan had his lemonade—and I’d confirmed in all likelihood he wasn’t a serial killer—I should’ve left him to it. But he wasn’t the want-ad handyman I’d expected. He was a high schooler, even if he didn’t look like that either. His eyes were hooded, almost haunted. Whatever they’d seen had set him apart in some intangible way. It gave him an aura of intense loneliness that hung over him like a shadow.
I didn’t like it.
And I didn’t like that I didn’t like it.
It won’t kill you to be friendly to him. New kid and all.
Only this guy was no kid. He was a man in every sense of the word. Something in his past had rushed him into adulthood, and a not-so-small part of me needed to prove I could be in his space and not melt into a puddle at his feet.
“Bibi said it’s break time.” I nodded at the small wrought iron table with two chairs in the middle of the patio. “You want to have a sit for a minute?”
“Sure.” He sounded less than thrilled.
He lowered his tall frame of lean muscle into a chair at the table and went at the sparkling lemonade, downing huge gulps that made his Adam’s apple move under the sweat-glistened skin on his throat.
I brushed a cluster of braids off my shoulder. The afternoon suddenly seemed hotter.
“So you’re new to Santa Cruz?”
He nodded.
“Where did you move from?”
“Manitowoc, Wisconsin. Got here a few weeks ago.”
“How do you like it here so far?”
He shrugged. “It’s better than where I was.”
Holy shit, I felt the weight of the subtext in those six words as if he’d packed his body with muscles to carry it all.
And to fight back.
“I heard you’re suspended for punching Frankie Dowd.”
Another nod.
“My friend Violet said you were protecting Miller Stratton.”
“You could say that.”
“I didn’t realize you and Miller were friends.”
“We are now.”
I furrowed my brow. Talking to this guy was like walking a maze and hitting only dead ends. I had to keep turning to keep the convo going.
“Well, I’m not glad you’re suspended, but Frankie’s been a dick to Miller for years and Miller can only fight back so much.”
Ronan’s gray eyes hardened. “Why? The diabetes?”
“That, but also he’s a musician. Plays guitar. If his hands get banged up, he won’t be able to play.”
He nodded again, almost to himself. “He doesn’t have to worry about Frankie anymore.”
“That’s heroic of you, but Frankie’s dad’s a cop.”
“So I heard.”
“So he’s not going to be happy that you broke his son’s nose.”
Ronan shrugged.
“Bibi says he’s a psycho. You’re not worried about payback?”
He inhaled through his nose, chin tilting up. “No.”
I pursed my lips. Maybe he wasn’t an intense loner after all. Just a typical alpha male, flexing his muscle to show how tough he was.
Yawn.
But those muscles…
Against my will, my gaze went to his spectacular arms and the tattoos inking his skin. A half-sleeve on his right arm—wrist to elbow—showed a clock face with Roman numerals surrounded by lilies. At quick glance, the time read a little after ten.