Once a Marine. Loree Lough
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kid!” an elderly man bellowed, shaking his fist. “Where’d you get your license, in a bubble gum machine?”
Alex’s shoulders slumped, and Zach raised his eyebrows. “You know what you did wrong, right?”
“Didn’t check the mirrors.” Smiling sheepishly, he added, “Sorry. Won’t happen again. Promise.”
“Let’s hope not. Your entire driving future is riding on it, remember.”
For the duration of the short trip, Alex kept his word, even while chattering about the attack that turned Summer Lane into a recluse. The kid didn’t have many details, though, so Zach decided that tonight he’d fire up the laptop, see what he could find out about her online. Wouldn’t it be faster and easier to ask her?
Alex took the corner a little sharply, distracting Zach from the question.
“Sorry. I’ll be more careful at the next corner,” Alex said. “You think we’ll get that snow they’re calling for?”
Zach held tight to the grab handle. “Probably, but I hope not.”
As Alex pulled into her driveway, Zach saw the blinds beside her front door snap shut. Had she been standing there, watching, since the kid hung up the phone?
Alex got out of the truck first, and waved as he approached the town house. “Hey, Summer,” he called. “It’s us. Zach and me.”
He whispered to Zach, “She’ll never leave here, but this is a start.”
The door opened slowly, and there it was again, that lovely, amazing voice.
“Please,” she said from somewhere in the shadows. “Come in.”
“You’ve been baking again, haven’t you,” Alex said, heading straight for the kitchen.
Baking again? Libby made things from fabric and yarn. Sweaters. Mittens. Curtains and throw pillows, and called her craft projects “coping mechanisms.” Did the oven serve the same purpose for Summer?
“Man, oh man,” Alex said around a mouthful of cookie. “I think these are your best ever!”
“Thanks,” she said. “Have as many as you like. I can’t eat them all by myself.”
For half a second, silence. Then all three laughed, because Alex had stuffed one cookie into his mouth, and held one in each hand.
“Name’s Marshall. Zach Marshall,” he said, offering his hand. “But I’m guessing you already knew that.”
For a minute there, it didn’t look like she’d reciprocate. He felt awkward, his hand dangling in midair. When at last she accepted his greeting, he noticed a slight tremor in her cool-to-the-touch fingertips. Cold hands, warm heart? If the warmth glowing in her eyes and smile was any indicator, the answer was yes.
“Summer Lane,” she said, and quickly folded both arms over her chest. “But I expect you already knew that, too.”
At the moment, Zach didn’t know much, except that he liked her. Or was pity the more accurate word? “Aw, Zach,” Alex mumbled. “You really gotta try one of these. They’re excellent, man. Excellent.”
Every thread of common sense in him said, look at Alex. Look at the cookies. You’ve seen gorgeous women before, so stop gawking at her!
She must have thought he was staring at the slightly raised pink scar that ran the length of her left cheek, because she cupped her chin in her palm and hid it behind her fingers. What other reminders—physical and emotional—had her attacker left her with?
“There are soft drinks in the fridge,” she said. “Or I could fix you a cup of coffee. Or tea. Or hot chocolate?” Summer pointed at the coffeemaker on the counter and the carousel that held a colorful variety of pods.
He didn’t need a degree in psychology to know Alex was right. She wouldn’t leave the town house today. Maybe not tomorrow, either. Asking her to consider checking out the studio would only add to her unease. Maybe she’d let her guard down enough that he could show her a few basic moves right here in her living room. Zach made note of her stiff-backed stance and nervous smile. Or maybe not.
“I told my assistant we wouldn’t be gone long,” he said, “but coffee sounds great.”
As she made her way to the other side of the bar counter, Zach noticed her limp. Alex had mentioned multiple surgeries to repair a shattered femur. Not an easy injury to recover from; he’d learned that while visiting guys he’d served with who’d been shot or who’d stepped on IEDs.
While she added water to the machine, he remembered that Libby’s attacker had been high on PCP, and the slick defense attorney blamed the drug, not his client, for the crime. The judge gave her attacker a choice: rehab facility or prison. Naturally, he chose treatment. The punishment didn’t fit the crime, in Zach’s opinion. If asked to explain his harsh judgment, he would have said “The guy hurt my kid sister! Hang him by his heels!” As it turned out, the guy punished himself. Months after being released, he died of a heroin overdose.
When Summer turned to face him, her smile faded, like the smoke from a spent match. Evidently, the memory of what had happened to Libby was still very fresh, and his anguish was written all over his face. He half expected her to shrink back in fear, but to her credit, Summer held her ground and, mug in hand, asked how he liked his coffee.
“Black. High-test if you’ve got it.”
“Cool,” Alex said, looking from Zach to Summer and back again. “Something else you two have in common.”
Summer’s left brow quirked upward.
“Something else?” Zach said.
“Black coffee and...and...” The teen blinked then helped himself to another cookie as a red flush crept up his neck. “Well, you guys are about the same age.”
Nice recovery. He could almost read the kid’s mind: black coffee and a close connection to violent crime. Had Summer picked up on it, too?
“Much as I hate to quote my mom,” Alex said, “I have to eat and run. Midterms. Argh.” Alex stood beside Summer and whispered, “Will you, uh, are you okay being alone with you-know-who?” He aimed a thumb at Zach, trying to hide it behind a cupped hand.
Goofy kid, he thought. If God ever blessed him with a son, Zach wouldn’t mind a bit if he was just like Alex.
“I sent a short grocery list to your email,” she said. “Specialty items for my parents’ visit. Bean sprouts, oatmeal, tofu...”
“Gross!” He wrinkled his nose. “I almost forgot they’re vegetarians.”
“Vegans.”
Alex groaned, whimpered and opened the door. “Guess we won’t be grilling any steaks while they’re in town, then, huh?”
Smiling, Summer said, “If we do, we won’t have to worry about sharing them with Mom and Dad.”
He stepped outside, but turned back. “Do me a favor, will ya, and tell them boiling cabbage is against community association rules. My grandmother had an apartment in a seniors’ high-rise. Every time we visited, the whole building reeked of the stuff.” He pointed left. “There’s just a wall between your house and mine, and you remember the time I burned popcorn in the microwave.”
It was Summer’s turn to groan. “I didn’t think I’d ever get that awful smell out of here!”
Alex was still snickering as the door clicked shut.
The room fell silent, save for the trickle of coffee filling a big white mug, the ticking clock and the hum of the fridge.
“That’s one great kid,” Zach said.
“Yes, he is.” She clasped her hands at her waist. “So tell me, how many of your other