hen the headlights of a Chevy TrailBlazer round the corner, I turn and offer Kevin a slight nod before heading down the steps.

      “I’ll make sure Nick doesn’t drive,” he says again. I look back in time to see him raise his beer bottle in a salute.

      “Thanks,” I say, even though I’ve pretty much decided I don’t want Nick Matherson to be my responsibility—no matter how pretty he is or how many great late-night talks we had sitting on the beach. I just don’t have the time or the patience.

      The TrailBlazer stops at the edge of the Hineses’ driveway, and even though I knew it wouldn’t be Struz, I’m still disappointed when I see a dark brown head and a scruffy layer of facial hair. He’s an agent I don’t know, and he’s on his cell, not paying any attention to me when I open the door and slide into the passenger seat.

      “—and now I’m stuck playing babysitter. This is ridiculous.” Nothing makes you feel uncomfortable quite like when you first meet someone who’s not just talking, but complaining, about you. “Yeah, well, next time we’re switching positions on this. I’m not playing this angle again.”