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“Fine.” He tugged his hat back on, keeping it lower than before, which shadowed his eyes. “Your father’s team dumped hay all over the damn dugouts at the sandlot. Took us forever to clean that shit up.” He picked off a piece of hay I hadn’t seen on his shorts and flicked it at me. “But they’ll be sorry.”

Oh, give me a break. “Can’t you guys just, you know, play some baseball?”

He made a face. “If someone stuffed hay in your light booth, wouldn’t you want to get them back?”

Yes. I’d destroy anyone who went after my light booth with the power of a thousand PAR lights.

Laughter sounded from the tracks below. I whirled around and crouched low to the railcar, feeling Reed do the same behind me before I craned my neck over the edge to see the ground. Trevon and Marcus, grandkids to the Browns, one of the oldest families in Fairfield and the ones who owned the thrift store, carried fishing poles on their shoulders and tackle boxes in their hands.

If they saw us, they’d definitely tell their grandparents. And Mr. Brown would then tell my dad who would totally blow a fuse and ground me for life. I’d have to quit the show. Ms. Sparrow would never let me work with her again or ever consider writing me a recommendation for college. My life would be over, and all because I sat on a railcar with a frenemy.

This was not good. Nope.

My heart pounded so loudly I swore it echoed off the metal. Could they hear heartbeats from down there? Reed exhaled near my neck, making me shiver. Did he have to do that so loudly? And why was he so close to me? He had like twenty feet of open railcar to use.

Everything was still. Even the air didn’t make a sound, so naturally, in that moment, my phone alarm went off like a failed nuclear power plant.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I hissed, fumbling with the thing until I could turn it off.

“Should’ve given me twenty minutes, Crowley,” Reed whispered, chuckling.

“Shut up,” I whispered.

He army-crawled toward me and tried to touch my wrist. “Wait. Is that a tattoo? When in the hell did you—”

I elbowed him quickly, smiling when he grunted.

Trevon and Marcus stopped walking. I crouched lower.

Had they seen us?

If they did, would they tell someone?

The two boys below set down their tackle boxes and opened them, sifting through the lures and bobbers as they chatted. I fought back a groan. As if it wasn’t bad enough being stuck here in the stifling heat with Reed Fulton, now I’d be here even longer with him and two kids who would pass the time debating crappies versus perches?

Thankfully, though, the two boys didn’t hover over their tackle boxes for too long, and after a few—painfully leg-cramping—minutes, they picked up their gear and edged down the bank on the other side of the tracks. The tall grass and wildflowers reached their waists as they plodded away.

“Must be heading toward Potter’s Creek,” Reed whispered in my ear.

I jumped and started sliding off the side before he grabbed me around my arms and pulled me backward. We were now only inches from each other. I had a ladder behind me and one on the other side behind Reed, but I couldn’t force my legs to move toward an escape. My heart pounded the same way it did on the catwalk.

In the theater, we were surrounded by an entire cast and crew. But here, we were alone.

And definitely closer.

If he had let me fall, no one would have known but the two of us.

Yet he chose to save me.

Again.

“Jesus, Crowley. Do you make it a habit of falling off high places?” He smelled of sawdust, sunblock, and infield dirt, and it took me far too long to answer him.

“Only when you’re around, apparently.”

“You hurt?” One of his hands moved to my knee, where I had a new scrape. The pads of his fingers were rough, calloused—the way I always imagined fingers that were used to hard outside work felt. It was…nice.

Nice? Whoa, whoa, whoa, Eliza.