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She glanced at him worriedly, and his eyes opened fully. “My parents are dead, Becca. Do you think you could open a window?”
Maybe the fresh air would help. She pushed the button to drop his window a few inches, not wanting to let the rain in.
He sighed. “Thanks.”
He fell silent for a mile, and when they came to the red light by the community college, she turned in her seat. His eyes were closed.
“Chris?”
He didn’t answer.
“Chris.”
Nothing.
“Damn it,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 2
The blue house at the end of Chautauga Court stood two stories high on half an acre of land. It was easily twice the size of her own, the kind of property better suited to Labrador retrievers and backyard barbecues than clotheslines and broken-down vehicles. Lights blazed in the windows of the main level, a clear sign someone was home.
He’d said his parents were dead. Did he and his brothers live with grandparents?
She parked behind a mini-SUV in the driveway, one of those newer hybrids. Dark red and gleaming in the light over the garage, the car didn’t seem like a grandparent kind of vehicle. Vibrant landscaping enhanced the front of the house, the expensive kind, lush and modern. Thick, sculpted shrubs and greenery crawled along the walkway, giving way to rhododendron bushes and clusters of mums beside the porch steps.
Someone took good care of this yard. Maybe this wasn’t the right house. But it was the only blue one. Could she really knock on the door and say some kid was bleeding and unconscious in her backseat?
Chris still sat upright, but his breathing sounded worse, a rush and whistle before the wheeze. She shoved on the driver’s side door until it gave, jammed her hands into her sweatshirt pockets, and hunched her shoulders against the cool September rain.
As she approached the house, she prepared herself for either young, hip grandparents or maybe a middle-aged aunt and uncle. Instead, a rough-cut guy in his early twenties yanked open the door.
Becca stood there in shock for a moment, feeling rain drip from her hair down her collar.
He looked a little like Chris, she supposed, with dark hair and a strong jaw. But Chris’s hair was short, his clothes fitted and current, while this guy looked like he woke up in the morning and didn’t give a crap. His hair was longer, pulled into a haphazard ponytail, his tee shirt faded and worn. Calling his jeans threadbare would be a compliment. She wasn’t surprised to see his feet were bare.
His eyes—brown, not blue—narrowed. “A little old to be selling cookies, aren’t you?”
Jerk. “Does Chris Merrick live here?”
“Yeah.” He gave her the up-and-down again, and she wasn’t a fan of his expression. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but settled on, “He’s not home.”
“No kidding. He’s unconscious in my backseat.”
“He’s what?” His eyes narrowed and finally seemed to focus on her. Without waiting for an answer, he leaned back to yell into the house. “Nick!”
Then he put a hand on her shoulder, moved her to the side—not gently, either—and strode off the porch. She was torn between following him and waiting, but the sky split and flashed with lightning, followed by a crack of thunder. She shivered and rubbed her arms, then backed up to stand closer to the house.
“Scared of storms?”
She jumped. The voice had come from behind her, and she forced her hands to her sides, ready to feign nonchalance. “No,” she lied, starting to turn. “I’m just—”
Face-to-face with hotness.
Her tongue stumbled for a minute. She’d seen the Merrick twins around school, of course. But catching a glimpse down the hall wasn’t the same as being six inches away from one of them, getting an eyeful of the way his long-sleeve tee clung to muscled shoulders, or of the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, or the depth of blue in his eyes.
Eyes that studied her a little too closely just now, a spark of amusement there.
Nick Merrick knew exactly what he looked like, and he knew she was looking.
