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Zach had never begged for anything in his life. When he was a kid and his father brought home women and his mother was too strung out to care, Zach didn’t say a word. When his biological parents would be gone for days, Zach searched for food. When he came to live with the Monroes he’d struck the parent lottery and definitely never asked for anything, because he’d just been given more than he’d ever hoped for.
But at thirty-two years old, he wanted Sophie. He wanted her with a need that had become all consuming. Having her meant exposing her to the past he’d fought to keep behind him. Having her meant opening himself up to someone and risking loss all over again.
And having her meant she would have to choose between her parents and him, because there was no way her family would sit by and watch her grow closer to someone like Zach. Accident aside, they’d never liked him. When he’d wrecked and Sophie had been injured, he’d been warned to stay away from her or face their lawyers.
At the time Zach hadn’t wanted any more trouble for his parents, so he’d avoided Sophie, in prison and when he got out. He would only see her when Chelsea brought her around, but even then Zach would do everything in his power to avoid her.
It had been the most difficult decade of his life.
But now he was an adult, and he wasn’t afraid of her parents, but he was afraid of putting her in a tight spot . . . something else she didn’t deserve.
So now he faced trying to figure out how to get through each day working closely with Sophie, because he had just come to the conclusion that he could never be with her again.
But just like when he was a kid and had come to live with the Monroes, he had something more than he’d ever thought possible for his life. Being with Sophie was absolutely beyond any expectation he’d had. He just had to hold on to those memories, let them replay over and over in his mind as he—
A thump came from the basement. A thump that couldn’t be ignored, and there was no way in hell that was the house settling. He kept a knife in his truck and contemplated going out to get it for about two seconds, but decided to grab the hammer from the kitchen island instead. There were enough tools here he could use for a weapon . . . unless whoever was downstairs had a gun.
Zach eased the basement door open, paused, and listened. Nothing. One step at a time, he listened for further proof of an intruder. Had this person started the fire? What on earth were they still here for? It wasn’t uncommon for someone to break into abandoned homes, but in Haven that was something he’d only experienced once in all his years of working construction. Still, this could be some random stranger just passing through.
By the time Zach got to the bottom of the steps, he gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, but he needn’t have bothered by the time his focus landed on the far corner behind him. A boy stood at the electrical box, flashlight in hand, muttering something under his breath.
What the hell?
“Turn around,” Zach stated loudly.
The boy jumped, dropping the flashlight until it rolled across the floor, coming to a stop halfway between them. Zach kept his eyes on the boy as he slowly moved to get the light. Once in hand, he held it right on the stranger’s face. His bruised, swollen face. But the bruises weren’t fresh, so whatever he’d endured had been a while ago.
“What are you doing in my house?” Zach demanded.
The boy, wide-eyed, tipped his chin up a notch. So, he was afraid but he wasn’t about to give in. Zach ran the light over his clothes, torn T-shirt and holey jeans. Could be a normal outfit for some kids these days, but Zach seriously doubted this boy was a typical teen. From the look of him he might be sixteen.
“Either tell me what you’re doing in my house, or you can tell the cops when I cal
l them. I imagine they’ll have you tell the story to children’s services too.”
Those wide eyes were instantly filled with fear, and Zach cursed himself. Maybe he should stick with dogs. Clearly people weren’t his strong suit.
“I’m leavin’,” the boy muttered and headed for the steps, forgetting his lost flashlight.
Zach ran, cutting him off at the base of the stairs. “You’re not going anywhere until I know who you are and why you’re here.”
“This place was empty,” the boy murmured.
Warning bells sounded all through Zach’s head. “It was. Now it’s not. Who are you hiding from?”
The boy shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
An inkling of familiarity slid through Zach. Suddenly this boy mattered, because Zach wondered if he was looking at a version of himself years ago.
“What’s your name?” When the boy said nothing, Zach sighed. “I’m Zach. Now you go.”
“Brock,” he mumbled.
“Where do you live?” Zach was pressing his luck in the questioning, but there was no way this boy was leaving without Zach learning more. Those bruises came from somewhere, and Zach had a sinking feeling. “Or are you trying to live here?”
Brock’s haunted eyes came back up. “Listen, man, get out of my way. I’ll leave and you can forget about this.”
Some people might let this guy go and forget he was here, but Zach wasn’t about to just turn a lost boy loose. Zach had been a lost boy once too . . . still was, if he was honest with himself.
