Page 31

I snort a laugh from where I’m still leaning against the doorway. “You really turn into an old-man bird nerd, eh, Golden Boy?”

He shakes his head, lips twitching as he fights a smile. “Had to fill my time with something that kept me out of trouble.”

I look at him. His face is the same as it ever was, just a little more grown into. His short and seemingly accidental beard has subtle strands of silver and slopes across the once bare jaw of his youth, failing to hide his now-deeper dimples. His eyes are still bright as ever, just bordered by lines that suit him. With the afternoon sun shining, he’s him amplified. Who he was the last time I saw him when I was twenty and who he became.

It unnerves me.

He works his teeth over his bottom lip, shifting his weight between his tennis shoes on the bottom step of the porch. “I have a favor to ask. An exchange really.”

I don’t hesitate: “No.”

“I haven’t asked!”

“You have nothing I want, Ford. You actually have an excess of nothing I want.”

“Can you just hear me out?” The desperation in his voice intrigues me. I’ve seen men at this point before: so pliable. “It’s about Wren. I think you can help her.”

I scoff. “How?”

“Spend time with her. Let her help you. See if she talks.” He shrugs. “She won’t talk to me—not about the big things—and she dances circles around the counselors we’ve tried.”

Something about that visual pokes at my heart like a needle in a pin cushion. Her ridiculous eyeliner, oversized sweatshirts, and combat boots. And now: the mom in prison.

But he doesn’t know that.

“Take off your shirt,” I say coolly, not moving from my easy stance in the doorway.

His eyebrows pinch. “The hell, Scotty? Why?”

“You want something from me, I want something from you. Take. Off. Your. Shirt.”

To my surprise, he does, annoyed look on his face once his shirt is over his head and balled up in his hands. His body is as annoyingly good as I expected it to be. Muscular, not ripped, subtle dusting of hair on his chest but not enough to be offensive. Familiar and new.

If I was interested, I would be very happy with the sight before me.

He holds his hands out to the side, as if askingwhat the fuck,but I don’t budge from my position nor react. “Now your shoes. And pants.”

“What?” His eyes widen.

“Unresolved issues. Do it.”

He mutters under his breath before reluctantly dropping his T-shirt on the porch, toeing off his tennis shoes, and dragging the athletic pants down his legs, scowl on his face as he steps out of them.

I smirk, bored.

“And the rest.”

“Are you kidding me right now, Scotty?” He looks around like someone could be watching him.

I scoff. “I don’t know,Ford, were you kidding me when you handcuffed me and forced me to talk to you?” Nothing. “That’s what I thought. Strip and beg or I’m not playing.”

To my surprise, he does. He bends over, slides his boxer briefs down his legs, and when he stands, both hands are covering his crotch, and his face is flushed.

Victory.

My eyes drop to his hands and linger as I say, “I’m listening.”

He clears his throat. “As I was saying—dammit, Scotty, will you look at my face?”