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“Sure.” He sounded less than thrilled.
He lowered his tall frame of lean muscle into a chair at the table and went at the sparkling lemonade, downing huge gulps that made his Adam’s apple move under the sweat-glistened skin on his throat.
I brushed a cluster of braids off my shoulder. The afternoon suddenly seemed hotter.
“So you’re new to Santa Cruz?”
He nodded.
“Where did you move from?”
“Manitowoc, Wisconsin. Got here a few weeks ago.”
“How do you like it here so far?”
He shrugged. “It’s better than where I was.”
Holy shit, I felt the weight of the subtext in those six words as if he’d packed his body with muscles to carry it all.
And to fight back.
“I heard you’re suspended for punching Frankie Dowd.”
Another nod.
“My friend Violet said you were protecting Miller Stratton.”
“You could say that.”
“I didn’t realize you and Miller were friends.”
“We are now.”
I furrowed my brow. Talking to this guy was like walking a maze and hitting only dead ends. I had to keep turning to keep the convo going.
“Well, I’m not glad you’re suspended, but Frankie’s been a dick to Miller for years and Miller can only fight back so much.”
Ronan’s gray eyes hardened. “Why? The diabetes?”
“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.
