Page 17

They nod but remain quiet. For the little comedians I had when they entered the classroom, I’m surprised they’re so quiet now. Makes me wonder who their fucking teacher was last year that they couldn’t talk during class.

“So let’s start by introducing ourselves and telling everybody one thing you did over the summer that you loved.” I point to my chest. “I’ll go first. You know I’m Ridge. . . and I taught camp tours at the National History Museum all summer down in Santa Barbara.”

A dark-haired boy in the front row raises his hand and sweeps his hair from his black eyes. “Yes?” I glance at his nameplate on his desk, but I can’t make it out. I’m blind as a fucking bat and refuse to wear glasses. Let’s just say that the minivan bitch in my lane this morning. . . could have possibly been my fault. There’s a 10 percent. . . maybe 80 percent. . . I was in her lane.

“Did you surf at the beach in Santa Barbara?” he asks, his voice timid like he’s not sure if he can ask that or not. With each passing minute, I’m more and more convinced this school is running a police academy.

I take a seat on the edge of my desk and reach up to run my hand through my hair. “Yeah, I surfed. But I’m not any good at it,” I tease, laughing lightly. I gesture with a flick of my hand to the boy who just asked the question. “How about you go next. Tell the class your name and one thing you did this summer.”

The boy slouches, pulling at the sleeves of his shirt nervously. “I um. . .” His eyes dart around the silent room. “My name is Draven Mattis, and I uh. . . helped my dad build a deck?”

In case you’re wondering, that did come out like a question. Look at his face? He’s asking me if that’s what he did. Crazy kid.

“Nice, buddy.” I nod, trying to be encouraging. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Draven.” He smiles up at me when I say his name. Next to him is Grady, and I’m really fucking curious what he’s going to say. “What’s your name?”

He looks to his brother first, then familiar blue eyes land on mine and the grin presents itself. It stirs my own. He has a cute smirk. One I know probably works on his mom to get what he wants.

Just the thought of Aly sends my heart racing, my memories of her sinking in my gut, and the last conversation I had with Austin the night I destroyed everything.

“What are you doing with Aly? You’re going to break her heart, and she’s too good of a person for it.”

This motherfucker had no right to be calling her Aly. He didn’t even know her. He knew Alyson Sprague. He didn’t know little Aly Rae. The little blonde girl crushing my heart with her sweet blue eyes and cherry-red lips.

Austin stared, his eyes assessing me just like his dad always did. Long before Brooks came into my life, he had assumptions about who I was and how he was going to treat me. Like the bastard stepson he never wanted.

I didn’t answer, and I wouldn’t give Austin anything to go on.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Ridge. . .” He paused, staring me up and down. “You’d break her heart, and that’s not a risk she’s going to take.”

He was right, but I still didn’t answer him. I wasn’t trying to fool anyone. I knew loving someone like Aly wouldn’t get me anywhere. I was never going to have her. Her heart would never be mine to break.

“I’m Grady Lucas,” the boy finally says, breaking me from my memories, bright eyes blinking slowly. “I played football with my brother. It was fun.”

Football? Who cares about football? I want to know about your mom, kid.

Damn. And I’m disappointed in a child. No information on Aly. Maybe Cash will help me out. He’s next. While the class greets Grady, I glance at Cash, who now has a pencil in his hand and he’s drawing something on his desk.

“What did you do this summer, Cash?”

Nothing. No response at all.

Sliding off my desk, I step toward his in the front row. “What are you drawing?”

He doesn’t look up but drops the pencil and then catches it before it rolls off the desk, slapping his palm over it. “What does it look like?” Our eyes meet for the first time. His defiant, mine amused.

Fuck. He acts more like me than Austin. I shouldn’t laugh, and I don’t, but I do smile. His drawing, while animated to say the least, doesn’t appear to resemble much of anything.

“Looks to me like Superman attacking Cinderella.”

Cash flips the pencil over and starts erasing the lines he drew. When that doesn’t work to remove the markings from the desk, he spits on the table then begins to wipe it off with his shirt. “It’s not Cinderella,” he growls at me, glaring. “She’s fake anyway.”

Remember vanilla cupcake girl with pigtails? Her name is Arrow and you better believe her makeup-wearing ass has something to say. She raises her hand, and my eyes slide to hers. “That’s not true. Cinderella is real! I met her this summer.”

Oh great. It’s only eight thirty and we’re already debating over fairy tales. Awesome.

The girl to the left of Cash raises her hand. I peek at her name tag. “Yes, Luna?”

“Cash spit on his desk.”