wheel, remembering his own ass-kickings. “Does your mom know this is happening?” he asked after another lengthy silence.
“No.” The boy’s lower lip quivered. “Sir,” he added huskily.
“I think, son, it’s time she knew.”
P aige was pacing the front living room when she spotted an old green pickup truck pulling up out front, the truck’s faded rusty patina almost jade in the late afternoon light. She knew that truck. It was the one that needed paint almost as much as her house.
Dillon Sheenan.
What was he doing here, now?
She sucked in a breath, pulse quickening, thoughts abruptly shifting as a boy in a puffy winter jacket slid out of the passenger side of the truck.
Her boy. Tyler.
Why? How? What was going on?
Paige flung open the front door, rushing out onto the covered front porch with its chipped and peeling decorative spindles, and practically ran down the sidewalk, meeting Tyler halfway.
“Where have you been?” she said, placing her hands onto his shoulders. “Tyler, I’ve been worried sick. I’ve been calling the school, calling friends....”
He hung his head, not speaking.
“That’s no answer, Tyler.” She took his chin and lifted his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. But what she saw in her eight-year-old son’s face horrified her—bloody nose, split lip, swollen jaw—and she released his chin quickly. “What happened?”
He shook his head and tried to look away, but not before she saw the tears welling fresh. “Fell down.”
“You didn’t fall down.”
He didn’t answer and a tear quivered on his lower lashes and she had to hold her breath, holding the air and anger and fear in. What had happened? Who did this? And why?
Looking up, she caught Dillon’s eyes. His lips compressed, his expression sober.
“He needs to talk to you,” Dillon said. “I think he’s going to need your help with this one.”
She didn’t know whether to hug Tyler or shake him. What was going on? “Tyler?” she asked wonderingly, fingers curling into fists. She’d kill whoever did this—she’d—
“It’s not the first time,” Dillon added quietly. “They’re older, too, by a couple years at least.”
Her head snapped, attention back on Tyler who still refused to look at her, staring off into the distance instead as tears streaked down his cheeks.
“You have to talk to me, honey,” she whispered, crouching in front of him, hands encircling his upper arms, his frame thin inside the puffy coat. “You have to tell me so I can help you.”
“I’m fine,” he said, lisping through the fat, split lip.
She looked up at Dillon whose expression revealed nothing and yet when his gaze met hers, heat rushed through her, the heat as shocking now as it had been Saturday night.
She didn’t want to think about that night. This wasn’t the time. And yet she couldn’t stop her skin from prickling, tingling, responding to him.
“Thank you for bringing him home,” she said unsteadily, straightening and putting a quick hand to her hair, pushing blonde strands back from her face. “That was nice of you.”
The corner of his mouth pulled, his eyes bright, hot, sparking with knowledge, reminding her he knew...he knew what had happened between them. “I’m a nice guy,” he drawled.
The heat in his eyes was anything but nice.
He was not nice.
He was unbelievably physical, and the chemistry with him had been mind blowing. Just kissing him had been the most raw, the most sensual encounter she’d ever had, and she would have given him everything within an hour of walking out of Grey’s with him.
It’d been so hot and electric that if he’d wanted to take her in the diner kitchen, she wouldn’t have stopped him. If she’d had her way, they would have just done it there...up against a wall, her jumpsuit down around her ankles, her hands fisted in his hair...
She’d loved Lewis but never, in all her life, had Lewis made her feel the way Dillon made her feel....hot, wild,
“No.” The boy’s lower lip quivered. “Sir,” he added huskily.
“I think, son, it’s time she knew.”
P aige was pacing the front living room when she spotted an old green pickup truck pulling up out front, the truck’s faded rusty patina almost jade in the late afternoon light. She knew that truck. It was the one that needed paint almost as much as her house.
Dillon Sheenan.
What was he doing here, now?
She sucked in a breath, pulse quickening, thoughts abruptly shifting as a boy in a puffy winter jacket slid out of the passenger side of the truck.
Her boy. Tyler.
Why? How? What was going on?
Paige flung open the front door, rushing out onto the covered front porch with its chipped and peeling decorative spindles, and practically ran down the sidewalk, meeting Tyler halfway.
“Where have you been?” she said, placing her hands onto his shoulders. “Tyler, I’ve been worried sick. I’ve been calling the school, calling friends....”
He hung his head, not speaking.
“That’s no answer, Tyler.” She took his chin and lifted his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. But what she saw in her eight-year-old son’s face horrified her—bloody nose, split lip, swollen jaw—and she released his chin quickly. “What happened?”
He shook his head and tried to look away, but not before she saw the tears welling fresh. “Fell down.”
“You didn’t fall down.”
He didn’t answer and a tear quivered on his lower lashes and she had to hold her breath, holding the air and anger and fear in. What had happened? Who did this? And why?
Looking up, she caught Dillon’s eyes. His lips compressed, his expression sober.
“He needs to talk to you,” Dillon said. “I think he’s going to need your help with this one.”
She didn’t know whether to hug Tyler or shake him. What was going on? “Tyler?” she asked wonderingly, fingers curling into fists. She’d kill whoever did this—she’d—
“It’s not the first time,” Dillon added quietly. “They’re older, too, by a couple years at least.”
Her head snapped, attention back on Tyler who still refused to look at her, staring off into the distance instead as tears streaked down his cheeks.
“You have to talk to me, honey,” she whispered, crouching in front of him, hands encircling his upper arms, his frame thin inside the puffy coat. “You have to tell me so I can help you.”
“I’m fine,” he said, lisping through the fat, split lip.
She looked up at Dillon whose expression revealed nothing and yet when his gaze met hers, heat rushed through her, the heat as shocking now as it had been Saturday night.
She didn’t want to think about that night. This wasn’t the time. And yet she couldn’t stop her skin from prickling, tingling, responding to him.
“Thank you for bringing him home,” she said unsteadily, straightening and putting a quick hand to her hair, pushing blonde strands back from her face. “That was nice of you.”
The corner of his mouth pulled, his eyes bright, hot, sparking with knowledge, reminding her he knew...he knew what had happened between them. “I’m a nice guy,” he drawled.
The heat in his eyes was anything but nice.
He was not nice.
He was unbelievably physical, and the chemistry with him had been mind blowing. Just kissing him had been the most raw, the most sensual encounter she’d ever had, and she would have given him everything within an hour of walking out of Grey’s with him.
It’d been so hot and electric that if he’d wanted to take her in the diner kitchen, she wouldn’t have stopped him. If she’d had her way, they would have just done it there...up against a wall, her jumpsuit down around her ankles, her hands fisted in his hair...
She’d loved Lewis but never, in all her life, had Lewis made her feel the way Dillon made her feel....hot, wild,
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