I smiled thinly. “Great.”
“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 arespectfulserial 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, if pale, sweat-slicked skin. Ahyperrealistic 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 cheekbones, 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 was 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.Damn it.
“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 cheekbone, down to his square jaw.
I cleared my throat. “Where have you been?”