At eighteen, I’m technically old enough to leave the foster care system, but state law allows kids to stay voluntarily until they’re out of college. Unlike some kids, I was lucky and ended up clicking really well with my foster mom. Probably because Nancy and her twin brother Arthur grew up in the system, too.
Wait a second...
“Are you Arthur?” I ask.
“It’s Art.” He cocks his head. “And how do you know my name?”
“Nancy’s my guardian. She told me about you.” All at once, I remember why Art and I have never met before: he’s been in prison for the past five years.
I rack my brain, trying to recall everything Nancy ever said about why Art was sent away. I’m pretty sure it had something to do with stealing.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?” Art’s gaze dips to where my hand is holding my towel closed. Heat floods my cheeks.
“Actually, she’s not coming back till Sunday.”
He frowns, hiking the backpack higher onto his shoulder. “I guess I should’ve called first, but I wanted it to be a surprise.”
I have no doubt that Nancy would be thrilled to find her brother on her doorstep. From the deflated, almost anxiety-stricken look in his eye, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been counting on his sister’s kindness for a place to sleep.
Technically speaking, Art’s a stranger, which means I shouldn’t trust him. But the fact that he’s related to Nancy makes him almost family. If Nancy’s taught me anything, it’s that you never turn your back on family.
“You can stay and wait for her if you’d like,” I say.
“You’re sure?” Art asks.
“Yeah, of course. Come on in.”
I step back to let Art enter the house. His bulk fills the doorway. I know I should be wary—and I am, a little bit—but at the same time, I’m fascinated by him. I’ve never met anyone who fills a room the way he does, and not just physically. Art exudes an aura that demands you stop whatever you’re doing and take notice. My own father took off when I was a baby, and I don’t get to spend much time with men; it might be fun to get to know this one.
“Thanks.” He sets his bag down on the floor, his mouth tipping into a smile. Even with the beard, I can see that he’s very handsome. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Ciara. And it’s no problem.” I force myself to stop staring at him. “Let me get dressed and I’ll fix up the couch for you.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say I saw a glint of disappointment flash across his features.
I run to my room and throw on a pair of shorts and a tank top, then hit up the linen closet for fresh blankets and pillows.
When I return to the living room, Art is sitting quietly, though something in the way he startles when I say his name betrays an edginess lurk
ing just below the surface.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, setting the folded bedding on the couch. “I could make pasta.”
He waves his hand. “Don’t trouble yourself.”
“It’s no trouble.” I smile. “I want to.”
He watches me spread the blankets out along the sofa, his gaze like an invisible hand reaching out to touch me. I catch him staring at my breasts when I bend down to pick up the TV remote, and my nipples tingle like they know they’re being watched.
I clear my throat, thinking he’ll glance away embarrassed, but he doesn’t.
He just keeps staring.
Fear prickles at the back of my neck and between my legs. I feel like prey locked in the sights of a predator.
“I’m going to run to the store for tomatoes,” I tell him. “Do you need anything?”
Finally, he looks at my face. The desire in his eyes is palpable, and I’m starting to worry that I’ve made a mistake, inviting an ex-con into my house.