I blinked as his eyes flicked to mine, and then, as if he’d just remembered the fact that I was completely naked, his gaze moseyed—a Boyce Wynn pastime if ever there was one—over every exposed peak and valley to my toes and back.

“Do you want it back?”

“What?” His eyes returned to mine finally, but his stare was incisive, his pupils dilated, dark.

“Your T-shirt?”

He grinned, his warm palm splaying across my stomach. “Screw the T-shirt. All I want right now is round two—if you’re game.”

Desire surged over me in a landslide as his hand slid higher, thumb stroking the underside of one breast. From the feel of things against my hip, he was definitely game.

He was kissing me before I finished nodding yes.

• • • • • • • • • •

Sleep was impossible in that bed, four years older but not much wiser when it came to Boyce. It was midnight before I got home from our trip to the sandbar. I’d watched him dig that hole and stare into it for several minutes before emptying the contents of the bag and refilling the remaining cavity with soil and sand. Not a word was spoken. Even so, Bud Wynn had been laid to rest in a manner he didn’t deserve—with more respect than he’d ever shown his youngest son.

Melody had texted me earlier, letting me know she’d arrived safely in Dallas and asking what I was doing without her. Not much, I’d responded, revealing nothing about what I was doing or with whom. Boyce and I had never made our relationship—whatever it was—public. We’d both taken pains to do the opposite in fact. I’d persuaded myself for years that it wouldn’t be understood by anyone who knew us, but now I questioned why I cared if anyone understood. The secrecy wasn’t all me, though. Boyce hadn’t ever broadcast it either, or even told his best friend. Lucas had given us puzzled looks the few times we ran into each other that summer between high school and college. He wouldn’t have watched the two of us like we were an unsolvable equation if he’d known.

Melody:  I still can’t believe you want to stay there, GF. That place is VOID of anything or anyone worth doing! Dallas is sooooo much better. Promise you’ll come visit!!

Boyce had returned from parking the car then, dropping his dad-in-a-box into the bow hatch and steering the boat down the canal, toward the bay.

Me:  Sure. Maybe this fall. ?

Slipping my phone into my pocket, I’d glanced up and forgot what I’d been about to say. The sun had begun its descent on the horizon, and at that exact moment it framed Boyce just as as it had that day on the beach when I’d woken up from drowning to his face hovering above me and his hand grasping mine. Art History, freshman year, I’d memorized various terms for the light surrounding him that day—halo, nimbus, glory—used to depict saints and angels.

Boyce had laughed and urged me to tell him which of those he was, as if daring me to liken him to either. He’d stared at my lips, and they’d prickled as I recalled, like a film on fast-forward, every blessed moment of their possession by his mouth.

Saint, he most definitely was not.

Chapter Twelve

Boyce

Ruben Silva was the only teacher I respected in high school—as much for his awe-inspiring size as his mechanical know-how. I’d given him some hell, but he’d known the best way to deal with me was to threaten to kick me out of his shop or call my dad. I’m sure he never thought I’d end up running my father’s garage alone, but neither had I. If not for how much I craved the purr and smell of a revving motor and the feel of grease on my hands, my old man would have lost me to dealing weed to tourists long ago. I’d come close enough as it was.

I figured Silva might know a kid who’d jump at the chance to be paid to change oil and spark plugs, plus get an occasional hand in a more complex engine repair. It was worth shutting down a little early to go chat with him after he finished his first week of teaching driver’s ed. We met in his shop where two kids leaned under a hood while he directed whatever they were working on.

“Summer class, Mr. S?” I asked, crossing the concrete floor, offering my hand.

He was still the biggest man in town and had been since he was seventeen—the high school’s only wrestler to ever win state. Rumor had it he’d turned down an offer to go pro to care for his terminally ill mother and stayed after she passed to finish raising his little sister, who went on to college and then law school.

“Well I’ll be—if it ain’t Boyce Wynn.” We shook, his mitt still engulfing mine, though not as noticeably as it had when I was his student. “Making me proud, son.”

I swallowed and nodded, grateful when he turned toward the students.

“No formal class. Just a few students who were more automotively curious than the rest. We meet in the afternoons, work on their cars or donated vehicles—repair work, restorations. Gives ’em something to do besides bein’ thugs all summer.” The would-be thugs eyed us over their shoulders. One wore safety goggles. The other was holding a wrench. “Adams,” Silva barked. “Goggles. Goddammit, these kids. One of ’em’ll put an eye out and who’ll get blamed? Me.”

I chuckled, having heard this exact same tirade a hundred times years ago, directed at me more often than not.

He waved a hand at the Adams kid. “Come meet Mr. Wynn.” It threw me for a loop, hearing Mr. Wynn from Silva—about me. To me, he said, “This is the one we talked about. Ignores orders half the time but a natural under the hood—like you. Has some potential beneath that know-it-all façade.”

“Ain’t no façade, Mr. Silva.” The kid smirked, chin lifted. “I know a lot.” This was Silva’s recommendation for my first employee? A smartass who sounded about twelve and looked like a scrawny twig in those coveralls?

And then the kid sat down in the wheelchair I hadn’t noticed and wheeled quickly around a stack of tires and a toolbox¸ heading our way. My misgiving morphed into disbelief.

“Boyce, this little twerp is Samantha Adams. Samantha, Mr. Wynn.”

A girl. In a wheelchair.

Her brass-blond hair was chopped short and stuck out in every direction, and her eyes were gray as an angry fog rolling into the gulf. “It’s Sam. Jesus, Mr. Silva.” She scowled at her teacher and shook my hand like she meant to crush my fingers.

She yelped when I squeezed back.

“Sam.”

Withdrawing her hand and flexing her fingers, she sized me up. “So how much is the pay and what hours do you expect me to work?”