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I can’t help grinning back. “No. No boyfriend.” I angle a look at him. There’s something boyish about the way he looks right now—this almost childish sparkle in his eye that doesn’t quite mesh with that Bad Boy bod of his. “You seem to be enjoying this—guessing, that is.”
“I’ve always loved a mystery.”
“I’m amystery,” I ponder thoughtfully. “Wow. That makes me sound so much more interesting than I usually sound. Let me guess, you read too many Stephen King novels as a kid.”
“Stephen King? I said I like a mystery. Not horror. And it was the Hardy Boys that did it for me, growing up.”
“TheHardy Boys? I didn’t even know that our generation read those books anymore.”
“Idid. I was staying with an elderly couple when I was in foster care for a summer. They had a complete collection of those books and I read every one.”
Foster care for a summer? He says it so casually, as though he had just said,“I stayed with my grandparents for a summer.”
“You were in foster care?”
“Just that one summer. No big deal. Best summer of my childhood, actually.” He chuckles. “Well, if it’s not work and not a boyfriend, then that leaves one thing.”
He seems to want to change the subject, and I let him. Because I get the feeling that while he might like a mystery, he doesn’t like tobethe mystery.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Family.”
“Ding, ding, ding!” I say, game-show style, putting my finger on my nose.
“Ugh. Family’s the worst for keeping us up, right?”
“You sound like an authority on this. Do you have a big family?” I ask, still curious about how he wound up in foster care.
“Nope. Only child. But I’ve had some issues with my parents.” His eyes seem to almost shroud over, as though a memory just rattled him.
And I expect hewouldhave some crappy memories if hisbestsummer was spent in foster care.
Funny how it’s somehow helpful to remember that other people’s problems can easily eclipse my own.
Then he gives a barely perceptible shake, and his back straightens. “You have a brother and sister?” he asks, shifting gears completely as he sends a nod toward one of the photos I have on my wall.
“Yes. So you’ll get little sympathy from me if you’re an only child. I was the youngest, which brought a lifetime of feeling like I’m trying to catch up to them.” I line up the corkscrew to the cork.
He looks down at the bottle I hold, his frown briefly returning before it morphs into a way-too-suggestive smile. “You know, I can tell you something that will relax you a hell of a lot more than drinking.”
I angle him a look. Seriously? Did he really justgothere?
And am I really tempted to tell him thatyes, I’d gladly have sex with him to distract me from everything on my mind right now?
Heck, at this point, I’d probably have sex with him even if Ididn’thave a lot on my mind. Because every night he’s been in this house has ended with me lying in bed, googling things like “Woman equivalent of blue balls” and “Will my housemate hear my vibrator?”
Dating him might be out of the question. But I’m starting to think that the option of a fling like Ava suggested might be on the table.
On the table. On the bed. And anywhere else he might suggest.
He laughs at my reaction. “Notthat. Come for a run with me on the beach.”
My face curls up at the thought. “I thought you ran in the mornings.”
“I do. But I’m willing to make an exception.”
Briefly, I consider it. Running is a huge pastime on Tybee, not just in the summer either. Even in the off-season, we get our fair share of runners training on the weekend for the half marathon we have on the island every winter.
