Chapter 3 #3
“That, but also he’s a musician. Plays guitar. If his hands get banged up, he won’t be able to play.”
He nodded again, almost to himself. “He doesn’t have to worry about Frankie anymore.”
“That’s heroic of you, but Frankie’s dad’s a cop.”
“So I heard.”
“So he’s not going to be happy that you broke his son’s nose.”
Ronan shrugged.
“Bibi says he’s a psycho. You’re not worried about payback?”
He inhaled through his nose, chin tilting up. “No.”
I pursed my lips. Maybe he wasn’t an intense loner after all. Just a typical alpha male, flexing his muscle to show how tough he was.
Yawn.
But those muscles…
Against my will, my gaze went to his spectacular arms and the tattoos inking his skin. A half sleeve on his right arm—wrist to elbow—showed a clock face with roman numerals surrounded by lilies. At quick glance, the time read a little after ten.
On his inner left forearm, a right hand stabbed the left straight through the palm with a medieval-looking dagger. A drop of blood hung off the tip and dripped onto the words HANDS REMEMBER.
Remember what?
His right pectoral bore a quote that I couldn’t read—his tank covered most of it, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask. But the owl on his right shoulder was so realistic it looked like it could take flight at any moment.
I tore my gaze from it to see Ronan watching me. “How old are you anyway?”
“Eighteen. Nineteen in March.” His eyes dropped to his lemonade glass, his low voice laced with bitterness. “I know. I’m too fucking old for high school.”
“I wasn’t going to say that. I only asked because most guys in class don’t have ink yet. Not to mention you seem young to be taking on Frankie’s dad.”
Ronan’s gaze came back to me. “I can handle it.”
And this time, there was no bravado. Only a kind of resignation. I got the feeling that a pissed-off Mitch Dowd wasn’t the worst thing Ronan Wentz had ever contended with.
“What about your parents?” I asked, letting my tone soften slightly.
“I don’t live with my parents,” Ronan said. “I live…with my uncle. Over at Cliffside.”
“Miller lives in that neighborhood.” I shot him a dry smile. “But I’m sure you know that, seeing as how you two are besties now.”
Ronan’s lips twitched in what passed for his version of a smile.
A short silence fell, but it wasn’t a bad one. Ronan didn’t seem itching to get out of the chair anymore. He glanced around the large, overgrown yard and at the house behind me with longing in his gray eyes.
“It’s nice here,” he said. He nodded at his empty mason jar. “And that was good.”
Without thinking, I pushed my untouched glass to him. Suspicion flooded his expression.
“You need it more than I do,” I said. “Working in this heat, I mean.”
“Thanks.” He made no move to touch it.
The conversation had sputtered to a halt, but apparently, I wasn’t in a hurry to leave the table either.
“How is it? Living with your uncle?”
“It is what it is.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“Same. I’m a loner too. Just me and Bibi.”
“Your grandmother.”
“Great-grandmother. My grandmother’s mom. She died before I was born.”
“What about your parents? Are they dead too?”
“Are they…” I crossed my arms. “That’s direct. Where are yours?”
“Dead.”
I stared.
“My mom when I was eight,” he said. “My dad a few years later. I only asked because…never mind.”
“Because why?”
“Forget it.”
This guy is so damn frustrating.
But my ire was already flaming out. I couldn’t stay irritated at someone who’d lost both parents at such a young age.
“To answer your very blunt question,” I said, “my mom’s in New Orleans with the rest of our family. As for my dad, I have no idea if he’s alive or dead. Only Mama knows that, and she’s not talking.”
“Do you talk to her much? Your mom?” Ronan asked, his voice low.
“Not much,” I admitted. “We’re not close.”
To put it mildly, I thought, and it suddenly struck me how much I’d shared with this guy, a virtual stranger. Ronan’s brand of honesty—rough and unpolished and unapologetic—had done more in a few minutes to dismantle my privacy than anyone else had done, including Violet.
“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work—”
“You’re the one I’m building the shed for, right?”
“For my business. I make jewelry. Now I work in the garage, but Bibi doesn’t want me breathing in fumes or burning the house down.”
Ronan’s gaze went to the ring on my finger and the bracelets on my arms, then lingered on my skin, skimming up to my neck, my chin, my mouth. I imagined I could feel his gaze wherever it landed, sending little shivers…
Nope, I’m out.
I stood abruptly. “Speaking of which, I have work. I should get back.”
Ronan stood at the same time and pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket. “This is what I was thinking about for the shed if you want to take a look. Since it’s going to be yours.”
“You drew up plans?” I asked, impressed he was taking this gig seriously.
He clearly mistook my surprise; his eyes turned flatter if that were possible. “Because it’s so hard?”
“No, I just meant…” I gave my head a shake. “Never mind. Let me see.”
I reached across the table for the paper. On it was a finely rendered work shed, the measurements reading ten feet by twelve feet. It had a slanted lean-to roof, double doors, and even a window on one side.
“Wow,” I said. “This looks…” Perfect. “…expensive.”
“I’ll stay within budget,” Ronan said, sitting on the edge of the table, arms crossed.
The scent of shower soap—plain and generic—and the heat of his skin wafted over me.
His hand came up, his finger tracing a line on the paper.
“This is where you can run electricity for lighting and your tools. I’m not certified.
You’ll have to hire another guy for that. ”
“No need,” I said. “And no budget. No matter what Bibi says, I’m not letting her drain her savings for me. My hand torch runs on batteries, and I’ll run an extension cord for my soldering stick.”
“A decent camping lantern should work too if you’re out here after dark.”
“I will be.” I looked over the plans again. “This looks great, Ronan,” I said and immediately regretted saying his name. An inexplicable flush of heat swept over me as the sounds rolled off my tongue.
I raised my eyes to his; Ronan towered over my five foot seven. My heart stuttered at how close his square jaw and full lips were to mine. The hard, stony gray of his eyes was now smoky and soft.
“Yeah, so thanks,” I said, clearing my throat and stepping back from him.
“Yep.” He held out his hand.
“What?”
“The plans.”
“Oh. Right.” Jesus, girl.
Ronan stuffed the paper into the back pocket of his jeans and turned away from me to pick up the rake.
I took his empty mason jar, leaving the other for him. He could drink it or not. What did I care?
But against my will, I glanced at him over my shoulder. My heart tripped to see he was stealing a glance at me too. We both looked away, and I hurried into the house.
No, no, no. I do not get flustered.
Bibi was on the couch knitting, Lucy and Ethel curled around her feet.
“Well?” Bibi asked, not looking up. “Can we keep him?”
I coughed. “Yeah, he’s…fine. Goes to Central, turns out.”
“Oh?” Bibi’s needles flew. “Isn’t that something? I thought he seemed pretty young for a serial killer.”
“Right. So…I’ll be in the garage.”
I put the glass in the sink and hurried to the safety of my workshop to throw myself into my work—the ring I’d sketched that morning. A piece for my eventual shop.
I rummaged in a bag of semiprecious gemstones I’d ordered from a wholesaler that had cost me a semiprecious fortune. I imagined the coils of metal would hold something vibrant and rich. Malachite, maybe.
I found myself reaching for the smoky quartz instead.
“Stop,” I scolded myself. “He’s hot. There. You admitted it. Now get back to work.”
But Jalen Jackson was hot too, and he’d fallen out of my thoughts the minute I left New Orleans.
Ronan Wentz was…
Something unexpected.
And I was going to have this guy at my house, in my class at school. Every day. Inescapable.
Nothing can stand in your way. Not one thing.
I put the gray stone back in the bag.