The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys 3)

Miller nodded, his smile not going anywhere. “Well, if you want to find him, he spends most lunchtimes in woodshop.”

“What for?”

“Beats me. Why don’t you go and see?”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t get cute, Stratton.”

He laughed and I started to go.

“Shiloh?”

I turned. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for thinking of him.”

Oh, the irony. I couldn’t stop.

The Industrial Arts building—or woodshop—was a huge shed on the east side of the campus next to the gym. It was crammed with tools along the walls and work stations, some with table saws embedded in them. The gardeners stored the riding mowers there too; the place smelled green and woodsy.

I found Ronan alone in the far left corner, bent over a worktable. The whack of a hammer reverberated in my chest, my heart pounding to keep time. He was working on a small cabinet of shelves made from stacks of spare wood leaning against the walls.

It was a little bit scary how happy I was to see him.

When there was a lull in the hammering, I cleared my throat. Ronan turned, his eyes widening to see me by the light of the industrial fluorescent bars running along the ceiling. He glanced around quickly.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hello to you too,” I said, my confidence slipping. I trailed a finger along the side of the cabinet. “Is this a woodshop assignment? Impressive.”

Ronan’s craftsmanship was amazing. Smooth lines, even shelves. Simple but sturdy.

“Not an assignment,” he said. “It’s for a tenant in the building I—in my building. My uncle’s the manager. I help him out sometimes.”

“You use your free time to make stuff for your neighbors?”

“They need it,” he said with a shrug. “Nelson…my uncle, doesn’t always want to spring for repairs.”

My eyebrows rose. “Doesn’t surprise me, actually. You, doing good things—kind things—for others. Like Kimberly Mason.” I cocked my head. “It was you, wasn’t it? Grimaldi’s Jeep?”

He was a split second too late denying it. “No…”

“It was you. I know it was you.”

“Doesn’t change what happened to her.” His mouth was a grim line. “I was too late.”

I shook my head. “It helps to know that he didn’t get away with it. Maybe he’ll think before he tries shit like that again.”

“He’d fucking better.”

“Thank you for doing that. For Kimberly. For womankind, too, but especially for her.”

The space between us warmed, grew smaller. I don’t know if he moved closer to me or me to him, but I was standing in front of him now, close enough to smell his clean scent, mixed faintly with sweat and wood. The bottom of his owl tattoo showed from under the short sleeve of his black T-shirt. A part of me wondered if Ronan had more tattoos on his body I couldn’t see. And if I’d ever find out.

Somehow, my hand was on his forearm. I ran my fingertips along the sleeve of ink, over the face of the clock. “What does this mean?”

“It’s for my mom. They’re all for her.”

I nodded, tracing the flowers surrounding the clock.