Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

My right shoulder lifted then fell in a shrug. "Still not great."

Nate's gaze drifted from my eyes, south to the magazines, then bounced north again. A long, slow whistle escaped his mouth. "Tell me his name. I know people. People who own baseball bats."

"I bet you do. Not." My lips curved upward. "Besides, 'his' name is Bailey, Sarah, and Cheyenne."

He pulled out the chair and sat. "You're having trouble with a trio of drag queens?"

"No." I swatted his arm. His triceps hardened beneath his hoodie jacket.

"Good." Nate grabbed half my sandwich and took an alligator bite.

"Hey!"

He chewed for about twenty seconds, swallowed, then wiped his mouth with his hand. "You busy Saturday?"

"Yes, it's the first Saturday of the month."

He eyed my pickle. "What happens on the first Saturday--?"

The school bell drowned out the rest of his sentence. We scrambled to our feet. Five minutes to fight the throngs and push our way to class. I handed him the pickle, gathered up the rest of my stuff, and we hustled to the hall.

"Where are you headed?" Nate asked.

"Right. Pre-Calculus. You?"

"Left. Physics." He flicked his hair out of his eyes. "About Saturday--"

"Sorry!" A river of students swept me away. I glanced back once and caught sight of Nate's fire-god hair as he strode off. His head swiveled as if he sensed my gaze. His lips parted. Deep in my core, a tug connected us.

A purple backpack slammed my arm, knocking me into a cheerleader. "Watch where you're going!" she warned.

"Sorry." I hugged my messenger bag to my waist. I couldn't afford to antagonize anyone; at least not until I figured out who had stolen the magazine pictures, and why.

The headlines from my nightmares bobbed in my mind. Had Nate's father been one of the tradesmen burned by Dad's pullout of the Solstice Sunrise development?

My lunch curdled.

NATE WAS ABSENT FOR three days. Three. Days. This shouldn't have been my first thought upon waking Saturday morning, but it floated to the surface, and I couldn't ignore it. Was he sick? Had his parents wigged out and returned to Indiana? Maybe he had transferred to the high school across town?

Throwing off the covers, I considered tracking down his phone number. My private high school had a student directory. Maybe public schools had them, too. Heading to the bathroom, I resolved to check my new student packet when I returned from the build out. Or rehab. I wasn't sure if we'd be building affordable housing or rehabbing an existing home. There had probably been an email I should have read.

The First Saturday of the Month Club met in the parking lot of the Presbyterian Church on Amador Avenue. I had dressed to work, layering an old hoodie over a blue and black plaid shirt I had bought at a discount store. I wore my oldest pair of jeans and paint-splattered low-tops. Normally, I'd sling on the leather tool belt Dad had given me. But I couldn't. Maybe next month I'd be ready.

By the time Mom dropped me off, ten of the twenty or so regulars were already grouped next to the two work vans. They stared at me over their plastic-lidded coffees, their expressions welcoming, but unsure. My steps faltered.

"Sailor?" Wendy, one of the middle-aged women broke from the group. "We didn't recognize you! What did you do to your hair?"

The pressure in my chest eased. "I'm incognito," I confessed.

Wendy wrapped her arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the others. "We've missed you the past few months."

"Thank you for the flowers and card." My voice caught. None of the volunteers knew the Saint James Family Charitable Trust paid for most of the building supplies. We had kept the grants anonymous so I would be treated like any other volunteer. The trust had been formed when we were multimillionaires, before the housing market crashed. Before, if the tabloids were to be believed, bankruptcy loomed.

"What about the charitable trust?" I asked Mom when she told me we'd have to sell our house. "Can't we use some of that money?"

Mom shook her head. "We can't touch it. Not for our personal use. We can only request grants for others in need. But that's huge, right?

"Project 114." Wendy gave my shoulders a final squeeze before releasing me. "Bless our anonymous sponsor!"