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He also seemed noble back then, particularly because of how he looked out for my brother. My brother is on the autism spectrum, or at least we’re pretty sure he is. His diagnostic appointment is later this year. But when we were kids, no one talked about that kind of thing. Danny was just the smart, weird kid who couldn’t ride a bike well. My parents talked about him in the third person as if he were deficient in understanding…right up until the school asked to test him, and they were informed he was a genius. After that, they expected his genius to pay. He was basically the money maker of the household from his late teens onward.
But kids didn’t care about his genius status. They cared about his differences and enjoyed informing him of all of them, as if he didn’t already know. My parents didn’t protect him, but Shane did. He’d cut down the kids who hurt him with his words or, occasionally, his fists. He was like a knight, riding in to the defense of the person I valued most in the world.
I’d seen him engage in other acts of kindness too. One time, he found a bird’s nest that had tumbled from a tree in our yard. My mother said the baby birds were as good as dead and told Danny to throw them in the trash, but Shane insisted on taking it home so his mother could bring them to a conservation center.
Did I ever have a crush on Shane?
Yes, an excruciating one, but it lasted only until I was ten, nearly eleven, when I overheard him asking Danny why he kept letting his little sister tag along. That’s when my rose-colored glasses shattered. My hurt feelings sharpened to dislike every time he called me “kid” or “kiddo,” a practice he continues to this day.
To my dissatisfaction, I worshipped him for just long enough to carve our initials into the bench in safe space, the overlook in the mountains where Danny used to bring me to get away from our parents when they were shouting at each other or on one of their drunken benders. Our initials are still there—R&S with a heart around it—mocking me.
Because Shane Royce has grown up to be a vain, self-important dick, and there’s not a single doubt in my mind that he’s here because he wants something. For some reason, he thinks I can and will give it to him.
Flower licks my toes again. So far, she’s been an angel—and Izzy is so deeply in love with her that she drew five pictures of her before bed and begged me to let Flower sleep in her room. The only way I could actually get her to go to sleep was by encouraging her to imagine multiple Flowers jumping over a fence—look, this Flower has a red bow around her neck; ooh, that one’s wearing a studded collar, Izz!
The only real downside is that my nose is itchy and running, and my eyes are bloodshot, but allergy medication was created for a reason, right?
Shane clears his throat and glances off in the distance. He looks like an orator who’s about to say something important, but appearances can be deceiving.
For example, I have to admit that a person would struggle to find anything wrong with Shane’s appearance. Sometimes I can’t help but notice his defined jaw, always with the slightest bit of stubble. He’s the sort of man who’s fastidious enough to shave every morning, even in the middle of a personal crisis, but a razor can’t quite take care of the job. My destructive imagination has wondered what it might feel like. Then there are his eyes, an uncertain shade of hazel whose appearance can be influenced by the color of his suits and ties.
Yes, there’s no denying Shane Royce is a good-looking man. It’s one of the things I dislike most about him, because he knows he’s a beautiful bastard—and he wields that knowledge like it’s another weapon in his arsenal.
He glances back at me, his eyes more green than brown or blue today, because his tie is a light purple. The shop probably gave it some fancy-ass name like lavender haze or aubergine, because he definitely doesn’t go to the Goodwill like I do. He looks like he just stepped out of a Gucci ad.
“Why are you wearing a suit?” I ask in a burst of annoyance. “Were you trying to impress me? Because it’s about twenty-eight years too late for that.”
He lifts his eyebrows, his mouth tilting up wryly. “Maybe I was trying to impress your neighbor. You really think you’re going to get that dog past her? She probably sleeps next to the door, propped up in her chair, one eye pressed to the glass.”
I toy with my fork. “I have a plan.”
“Oh?”
It’s an invitation I won’t be taking him up on. He seems to revel in hearing about my plans and ideas so he can shoot them down. My hopes amuse him. And, sure, my plan comprises of a large tote bag I have that would easily fit Flower—if she stays silent and doesn’t move.
It’s a terrible plan.
“You know, Mrs. Longhorn would probably be more impressed if you’d shown up in your tighty-whities,” I say, shifting the subject. “Seriously, why the suit? You don’t have a job.”
“Thanks,” he says drily. “The no-job thing is part of why I’m here.”
“Sorry,” I say, grabbing another forkful of cake. “I’m not hiring at the bookmobile.”
A corner of his mouth ticks up. “Cute. Actually, I have been offered a job. You met a partner at the firm before Christmas. Monty Freeman?”
A memory of a long-faced man with apple cheeks and sweet, warm eyes flashes through my head. We ran into him outside of Danny’s girlfriend’s bar on Christmas Eve. He was such a nice man—full of stories about his wife, Hilda. He’d asked me encouraging questions about the bookmobile that had made me hope my idea might lead somewhere other than a ditch. But I’d felt Shane darting annoyed looks at me the whole time.
“I remember him,” I say. “He’s a very sweet man, and I could tell how devoted he is to Hilda.”
“Who’s Hilda?”
I roll my eyes. “You wanted a job with this guy, and you didn’t even pay attention to his wife’s name?”
A cunning look lights his eyes. I know that look. I’ve seen it often enough. When I was a kid, it usually preceded him convincing my brother to do something potentially dangerous in pursuit of one of his grandiose plans. Screw lemonade stands, let’s run a computer repair business. Why not pay someone to buy us lottery tickets? If we win, it’ll be worth it.
“I didn’t want the job,” he says, running a hand over his stubbled jaw. I can’t help it, my eyes follow the movement. “But my ex-boss has stonewalled me, and this guy’s the only lawyer in the county who’ll take me on. You know, he really liked you.”
“So I helped you get this job you don’t want?” I ask, smiling at him.
