The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys 3)

I groaned and retrieved a bottle of seltzer water from the fridge while Bibi added sugar to the lemon juice. “I told you not to let him in while you’re here by yourself.”

“No one wants to hurt a harmless little old lady like me.” She poured the seltzer and the lemonade over ice in two Mason jars, then added the mint and basil leaves.

No, they just might rob you blind. Literally.

“Besides,” she continued, stirring the jars, turning the delicious concoction a pale green. “I have good instincts about people. This boy is quiet. Respectful.” She handed me the glasses. “One for you, one for him. See for yourself who’s building your shed, and then tell me he’s not a perfect gentleman. Shoo.”

I obeyed, mostly because I wanted to confirm she hadn’t invited a respectful serial killer into our home.

I strode to the back of the house and stopped short at the screen door that led to our large, overgrown backyard. A tall guy—six feet, if not more—with short dark hair was bent over a rake, clearing weeds from a patch of land next to the patio. He wore jeans with a black tank, revealing powerful arms and several tattoos. The muscles of his back and shoulders slid and moved under smooth, sweat-slicked skin. A hyper realistic owl—inked in all black and white except for stark orange eyes—watched me watching him.

I stood like a dope while the guy paused in his work and arched his back, revealing a profile straight out of an artist’s manual—high cheek bones, thick brows, a long straight nose and luscious mouth with full lips.

Okay, so he’s a beautiful serial killer.

I clutched the Mason jars to my chest as I opened the screen door. The guy turned at the sound and leveled intense gray eyes on me. Eyes that—had I been that type of girl—would have knocked me on my ass. Cold and flat like slate, they warmed instantly at the sight of me. His mouth that had been a grim line, fell open a little.

Then he shut it all down, his gaze turning hard and stony as he watched me cross the patio. Shields up.

Right back at you, pal.

“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as my eye contact. “From Bibi.”

“Thanks,” the guy said. His voice deep and masculine. A man’s voice. He accepted the lemonade with relentless eye contact of his own, taking me in and not letting me go.

I tilted my chin, unwilling to break first. “I’m Shiloh.”

“Ronan.”

I blinked. Dammit.

“Ronan…Wentz?”

He nodded, taking a sip of the sparkling lemonade.

“You’re in my History class,” I said. “Your name’s in the roll book, anyway.”

Another nod. A bead of sweat trickled down the axe blade of his cheek bone, down to his square jaw.

I cleared my throat. “Where have you been?”

“Work. And now suspension.”

He said it simply enough. Everything about him seemed simple—his clothes that had seen better days, his scuffed boots, and the way he moved—directly and deliberately. Except for his eyes. There was depth there.

The kind you’d get lost in if he let you.

I snorted at my own ridiculous thoughts. Now that Ronan had his lemonade—and I’d confirmed in all likelihood he wasn’t a serial killer—I should’ve left him to it. But he wasn’t the want-ad handyman I’d expected. He was a high schooler, even if he didn’t look like that either. His eyes were hooded, almost haunted. Whatever they’d seen had set him apart in some intangible way. It gave him an aura of intense loneliness that hung over him like a shadow.

I didn’t like it.

And I didn’t like that I didn’t like it.

It won’t kill you to be friendly to him. New kid and all.

Only this guy was no kid. He was a man in every sense of the word. Something in his past had rushed him into adulthood, and a not-so-small part of me needed to prove I could be in his space and not melt into a puddle at his feet.

“Bibi said it’s break time.” I nodded at the small wrought iron table with two chairs in the middle of the patio. “You want to have a sit for a minute?”