I resume weaving through the crowd, and my heart beats faster when I realize I’m gaining on him. Something about him keeps tugging me closer, and I love the rush that pulses through me with each step. I jog to the parking lot, barely catching him before he hops into his truck.
“Wait!”
He freezes, one hand on the door handle, but he doesn’t look back.
I come to a stop a couple of feet away, then I rub my lips together, wondering where to start. My freaking heart won’t stop pounding. After a second, I go with, “It’s Joshua, right?”
I can’t see his face, but his whole body stiffens. I could have sworn Mr. Lancer called him Joshua Hunt, but maybe I’m wrong?
“Um, well, I’m Blue. I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day. You know, when I was ...”Gaping at you. My cheeks turn pink. “When I saw you through my window, and then this morning at the park. Anyway, I’m staying with Tim for a while.”
Finally, he releases the handle and turns toward me. When he levels me with his gaze, I can only stare back. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such stormy grey eyes, like a thunderous dark sky. He scans my face, from my eyes to my lips. “Blue?”
His low drawl glides straight to my toes. There’s a roughness to it, a masculine husk, and I swallow. People say my name all the time, but no one’s ever said it likethat.
“Yeah?”
“What do you want?” he grumbles.
He’s so on edge, and his face ... I noticed it earlier while we were in English, the hardness in his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. Beneath the haggardness, though, he’s stunning. Some would even say beautiful. But that might be too soft a word for the rough edges in front of me now. I have to wonder what he’s gone through to make it reflect in every angle of his face, every tense movement of his body. Then again, maybe it’s easier than it seems to sharpen rugged shards out of porcelain.
After a second, his gaze drops to the ground, and he shakes his head before looking at me again. “You called on me. You stopped me. What do youwant?”
I pull my lip between my teeth, glance up at the clear blue sky. It really is such a gorgeous day, and I can hear them now—the birds whistling. If only he could hear them too.
In the end, I take a step back. “Nothing,” I say, letting him off the hook. “I don’t want anything. Except maybe ... what were you doing with that homeless man?”
“Can’t answer that,” he mutters before turning back to the truck and climbing inside. Well, what would beclimbingfor me is more likesteppingfor him.
“Why not?”
He slams the door shut, rolls down the window, and angles his chin toward me. His eyes harden. “You wanna know about Henry, you ask him yourself.”
Just like that, he’s dismissing me and starting up the truck. A loud rumble fills the parking lot as I turn toward the building where my bike’s parked. Joshua Hunt is on a first-name basis with the homeless man. I don’t know why that’s so interesting to me, but it’s the little details that usually mean the most.
A soft, warm breeze teases the back of my neck, tugging at my hair, and for whatever reason, I look back.
Joshua hasn’t moved. The engine roars, but the truck’s motionless. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, his forearm against the window frame, and both eyes pinned on me. With an easy curve of my lips, I smile right at him.
Blue
When I ride by the park after school, I slow down and scan the area. Henry’s not here. There’s no sign he ever was. Staring at the empty bench, I can’t stop the pang of uneasiness twisting my stomach. By the time I make it one block further, it’s morphed into full-blown regret. I should have said something when I saw him earlier, at least checked on him. Even a small hello might have helped somehow.
I go off-route on my way to Tim’s, stopping at a Home Depot I spotted on my walk this morning, and pick up some flower seeds. I have a small stash of savings that I never dip into from selling things like handmade bracelets and anklets at farmers markets, so I’m kind of excited to finally have something to spend it on.
When I get back to the house, the first thing I notice is the empty beer bottles on the coffee table. Second is the pizza boxes strewn across the table to the floor. And third is a pink bikini top draped over the couch.
Following a trail of clothes to the back door, I slip off my backpack and step outside into country music, giggles, and skin. Lots of skin.
“Move, bitches!”
A guy I don’t recognize dives into the pool, splashing water onto the surrounding pavement, followed by a series ofwhoopsand laughter. I spot Kimmie in the shallow end with a guy’s arms wrapped around her bare waist and his lips pressed against her ear, and yup—now I know who that bikini top belongs to.
When she keeps casting glances behind her, I trace her gaze to the guesthouse.
Joshua Hunt’sguesthouse.
I bite my lip, but I can tell he’s not home. His place is quiet, the door closed and curtains drawn. I don’t know why I’m so disappointed.
