Page 15 of On One Condition

When I toss my can to the side, it’s then that I see her standing on the outskirts of the party. Long legs. Tan skin. A red tank top with lacy white bra straps just beneath the fabric. Reddish-brown hair down her back. And . . . there’s something about her standing to the side, observing like she doesn’t exactly belong, that owns my curiosity.

That and the fact she’s a walking wet dream.

I can’t help but stare.

“Ledger. Bro. Can I grab another?” the local kid we’ve been hanging around asks me. Hell, in reality, everyone’s been hanging around us considering we have the beer, but he’s actually one we’ve befriended in the two weeks since we arrived.

“Sure. Yeah. Uh—who’s that, though?”

“Who?” he asks as he steps forward to look in the direction that I lifted my chin.

“Her.”

“Lavender Girl?” He snorts.

“Lavender Girl? What are you talking about?” I ask, desperate to look again but afraid to seem too interested.

“That’s what we call her around here.”

“Why?” But he’s headed toward the cooler before I get the word out.

I chance a glance toward her again. And this time when I do, I’m met with a pair of gray eyes that don’t look away.

I walk over to her, my nerves dampened by the beer. Her eyes grow wide, almost fearful, as I approach. Skittish. For some reason I get the impression that she doesn’t normally run with this crowd. Doesn’t quite fit.

Maybe I feel the same in a different way.

She’s even prettier up close. Way out of my league.

Her breath hitches when I stop in front of her.

“Lavender Girl, please tell me you’re not going to run away? I just want to say hi.” I hold my hands out to my sides, my confidence bolstered by my buzz. “I’m Ledger.”

Her lashes flutter as her eyes lift to meet mine.

Thud.

“Hi.”

Then she smiles . . . and I’m a goddamn goner.

CHAPTER FIVE

Asher

I sit behind the wheel of my car with the door open, one leg firmly planted on the ground, the other on the floorboard, and simply take in everything.

The house before me. Its paint is faded, and its steps are worn, but there is a presence about it that has a soft smile ghosting my lips. The porch swing is where I spent hours upon hours lost in the pages of a book while my grandfather, Pop, helped work the fields beyond.

Memories hit me.

A shadow passing in front of the window as Gran would move about with her perpetual need to tidy and dust and be occupied. Anything to make her feel somewhat normal despite the partial paralysis and ailments her stroke caused. And how I’d go back over it when she was fast asleep because her attempts were futile at best.

The blue hue on the walls from the television lighting up the room. Its hum was not to be outdone by Pop’s booming laughter, which echoed out the windows he liked to leave open to let the summer’s warm night breeze in.

The light scent of sage or cinnamon floating through the air. The creak of the raised wood floors as I’d walk over them to give each of my grandparents a kiss on their cheeks. A wall full of framed photographs documenting every embarrassing stage of my life.

There were never reminders of the things I was missing. A father I never knew. A mother that wanted freedom more than she wanted me.