The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys 1)

“Almost there.”

Shiloh wore sandals and another pair of billowy, linen pants. We’d both worn hoodie sweatshirts, as she’d warned the wind could be bitter at night, fire or no fire. I followed her slim shape, her long braids flowing behind her, and was relieved to see the terrain grew easier and farther away from the ocean.

We rounded a huge boulder, and there he was. Miller sat on a worn-out beach chair in front of a roaring fire, his guitar case at his side. Ronan Wentz and Holden Parish sat in similar chairs, and they were all talking shit and laughing. The Shack was a little fisherman’s hut built against the rock.

“Hello, boys,” Shiloh said, stepping into the ring of light. She looked pointedly at Miller. “You all remember Violet, don’t you?”

Miller met my eye, and I swear the smallest flicker of a smile touched his lips, then vanished. Shut down. He was guarding his heart the same way I had been for four years.

We’re like a pendulum, swinging back and forth, I thought, wondering when or if we’d ever be unguarded at the same time.

“Miss Violet,” Holden said, rising to his feet and offering me his chair—right next to Miller. “Please. Sit.” He kicked at Ronan’s boot. “Wentz! Mind your manners, for fuck’s sake. We have company.”

Ronan pulled in his long legs that had been stretched out to the fire so I could cross to the chair.

“I come bearing gifts,” I said with a small smile. “An IPA. I hear it’s good.”

“You’re an angel,” Holden said, taking the bag from me and dumping it in Ronan’s lap. “He’s in charge of libations.”

Ronan grunted and shot Holden a scowl, then turned his silvery eyes on me. I knew next to nothing about him, except that he was constantly in trouble at school and that Frankie Dowd had made it his life’s mission to one day kill him. Judging by Ronan’s bulk, his muscled and tatted arms, and the dangerous aura around him, I guessed he had little to fear. He could break scrawny Frankie in half.

But I wasn’t prepared for the shrewd intelligence in his gaze that followed me to my seat.

Holden procured two more chairs, one for Shiloh—between Ronan and Miller—and another for himself, between Ronan and me.

“The circle is complete,” Holden said, and then his smile slipped at a sudden thought. “Almost.”

“Hi,” I said to Miller. Shiloh had assured me he knew I was coming, but I still felt like an unwanted guest.

“Hey.” He took a pull from his beer. I bit back the urge to ask how he was feeling and how his diabetes management had been going. That was Amber’s job now and that of his friends. I wasn’t sure if we were even that anymore.

“How have you been?” I asked.

“Good. You?”

“Fine.”

Jesus. Making small talk with Miller after years of deep, thoughtful debates and bickering conversations about life was torture.

I met Shiloh’s gaze from across the fire. She jerked her head and mouthed the word Go.

I cleared my throat and leaned into Miller. He smelled of smoke and salt and whatever made him, him. “Can we talk? Maybe take a walk?”

He stared at the fire, walls up, his eyes hard. But when he turned to answer me with a no on his lips, his gaze softened slightly. “Sure.”

He stood up and offered me his hand. I took it, my heart pounding. The last time we’d touched was months ago. When he kissed me. His hand was hard and rough in mine, but gentle, and he pulled me to my feet and then let go.

“We’ll be right back,” he told the group, a slight emphasis on right back.

Feeling three pairs of eyes on us, I dusted sand off my butt and followed Miller. The Shack sat in a dead-end where the cliffs had collapsed and slid into the sea. He led us back the way we had come, away from the bonfire, to the relatively smooth patch of sand before the way became trickier again. The full moon provided our light.

Miller was silent, hunched in his plaid flannel, waiting for me to speak. My pulse pounded in my ears like the surf, scared to death that I’d lost him completely and afraid to know for sure. Nancy’s words came back to me, that I wasn’t a coward.

I drew a breath. “I’m sorry.”

Miller frowned, wary. “For what?”

“For what happened between us. For everything.”