Starlee's Heart (The Wayward Sons 1)

“Right.” I click on the computer system and find his booking. I see the name of six men that he’s listed as guests. I confirm. “There’s six of you? For a week?”

“Yeah, the others stayed in the car.” He leans his elbows on the counter. I notice the sheen of dried sweat. They’d probably come through the desert.

I check his identification and grab the keys from under the desk. “Here’s three. Is that enough?”

“That should be fine.” He looks around the office. “Where’s the best place to eat?”

“Depends on what you want. The Epic Café is really good. Kind of fancy hippie food. The barbeque is alright. The diner will be open in the morning. Oh, and there’s a pizza place.”

“Pizza sounds good. Anywhere around here sell beer or liquor? It’s been a looong day.”

“The market across the street is open ‘til ten. They’ve got a full selection of beer and wine.” All of this is things I’ve heard my grandmother say to guest after guest as they check in. “There’s a notebook in your cottage with additional information about the area.”

“Thanks,” he says, giving me a cheesy wink and snatching the keys off the counter. “What’s your name?”

“Starlee.”

“Starlee? Now that’s a name.”

“My grandmother’s. And her mother’s.” His eyes sweep over me, like he’s noticing me for the first time, and I feel my cheeks heat. “Well, let us know if you need anything. There’s

a number in the book in your cottage.”

“I will Starlee, thanks.”

He exits the office and I notice he holds the door open for someone, shifting out of the way so they can pass. I don’t know who I expect, but it’s not Dexter.

He watches the guy leave and steps in the office. My eyes shift to his hand and I see the envelope I’d left in his room earlier that day. Oh god. I may puke.

He doesn’t move away from the door and he’s got that tense, angry face that is somehow a mixture of terrifying and disturbingly attractive.

“You were in my room.”

My heart hammers so loudly I feel like it may burst out of my chest. “I was. I’m sorry I lied. I panicked.”

“I read it—your letter.” He grips it in his hand. “You didn’t have to thank me.”

“You covered for me at the museum and you made me a pie and well, you beat up someone for me.” I reach for the pen on the desk and fiddle with it. “I should have said something to you weeks ago, right when it happened, but the whole thing freaked me out so much and just being here in general freaked me out and then you…”

His eyes narrow. “What about me?”

“You’re…” My neck prickled from his attention. “There’s a tension between us. I’ve felt it from the beginning and over the past few weeks I’ve become friendly with everyone you live with and I just don’t want that lingering between us.”

“Tension,” he repeats.

“Yeah, like, the whole ‘I hate Starlee’ vibe I get from you.”

He absorbs that, sucking on the piercing, which makes my stomach twist in a different way. The dark shade to his eyes doesn’t take away from the vibe I’d just mentioned.

Finally, he speaks. “Beating up people is something I’m good at, Starlee. It’s the only thing I’m good at. Give me a reason, like some dickhead threatening the hot new girl in town, and I’m in.”

Everything he just said flusters the crap out of me. The way my name sounds rolling off his tongue. The admission about fighting. The fact he called me hot.

“You’re good at baking,” I blurt.

“What?”

“Those pies? The muffins? They’re amazing.” I stare at the counter. “I saw the guitar in your room, you’re probably good at that, too.”