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Chapter Two

Scarlett

“ W ell, let’s all have a seat, shall we?” Philip beams. “The grill’s still heating up.” He rests a hand against his son’s arm to guide him towards the sitting area, but the look on his face when Dylan jerks reflexively away isn’t embarrassment like Diane’s was; it’s unfiltered hurt. Not everyone ignores it this time, though. Dad gives Phil’s shoulder a supportive squeeze as he follows him around the back of one of the couches.

I end up sitting on the couch opposite Dylan, with my mother on my left and Diane on my right. The whole vibe feels weirdly like a middle-school dance: the awkward tension, the stretched-out silence, and the boys lined up on one side, girls on the other.

I stay silent, taking everything in as the adults fire off tentative questions and conversation starters that crash and burn after every wobbly launch.

“So, do you have a favorite subject in school, Dylan?” —this one from my mother. Not exactly original, but I'm assuming it’s because she’s nervous.

Dylan’s eyes meet hers. “Not really,” he says at the same time as Phil says, “Oh, uh, Dylan hasn’t been to school in a while.”

My mother chuckles nervously. “Oh,” she says. “That’s right.”

Her cheeks flush, and Phil attempts to dissipate the awkwardness by clarifying. “Well, except at Clive. He had a few classes most days there.”

I’m pretty sure Clive House is the name of the in-patient mental health institute where they placed Dylan for three months after his arrest.

Phil suddenly winces, as if realizing that bringing up a lockdown psych ward is not exactly the way to make the conversation less awkward for his son. So he tries to make up for it—again—by adding, “You liked Shop class, didn’t you?” His eyebrows lift hopefully. “Taking apart that engine?”

Dylan swallows, meeting Phil’s hopeful gaze. “Sure.” Barely an answer. Barely even a reaction. So far, he is unwittingly (or maybe not-so unwittingly) making a mockery of all those reporters’ dramatic accounts of the hollering, cussing, supposedly feral teen they hauled in three months ago back in California.

One reporter from a more sensationalist magazine actually described him as “An angelic-looking savage, so out of control and un-civilized he may well remain locked up in a mental health facility well into adulthood.”

The small-talk continues for what feels like an hour, but is probably only fifteen minutes. Until Phill stands up and says, “Well, I should go start the meat on the barbeque.” He glances over at Dylan, eyebrows raised, like he’s checking to make sure his son will be okay for the whole fifteen minutes it takes to grill a platter of burgers.

Dylan nods, still with that same neutral expression, not a glimmer of annoyance, even though his father’s hovering has got to be driving him crazy. But not only does the guy have a face made for modeling, he’s got a face made for poker, too. It’s impossible to guess what’s going through his mind right now.

My dad follows Phil, and they make their way over to the wall of sliding doors, then out to the upper deck. Then mom and Diane are on their feet, too, gliding towards the kitchen, clutching their wine glasses like security blankets.

“We’ll let you two hang out for a bit while Mel helps me in the kitchen with the salads,” Diane calls, clearly forgetting I’m really not the kind of girl who plays well with others. So leaving me on my own to steer the Dylan Braun welcome wagon is a risky move. I’m likely to drive it straight off the road, crash it, and abandon it in a jagged heap somewhere, engulfed in flames and swirls of smoke.

The way Dylan watches me, he knows this, too. I think he trusts me even less than I trust him. To his credit, despite his obvious discomfort with this whole situation, he hasn’t averted his gaze once. Not just with me, but with anyone. So, although he definitely has an issue with initiating conversation—or uttering a response longer than two full words—he has no issue at all maintaining eye contact.

I study him more closely now that it’s just the two of us. And based on his disheveled hair, the faded shirt and ragged jeans, it’s obvious he’s not the kind of guy who spends a lot of time worrying about his appearance. I guess when you look the way he does, you don’t need to. In fact, he seems to have done everything he can to mar his perfect looks. Most obvious is the welt on his forehead and angry red grazes against his left cheek, which I can’t help being curious about. Then there’s the tiny silver hoop through his sinfully pouty lower lip. It will be interesting to see how long that stays in. Not long, I’m betting, if Diane has anything to say about it. Which she will. And so will a lot of the students at SH Prep, guaranteed. Anything that stands out in any way is fair game for ridicule in the polished halls of Sandy Haven Prep.

He turns his smoldering gaze on me now. Stunning moss-green eyes that look like they’ve seen too much and laughed too little. Jaded. Literally.

“Sooooo…” I say, “SH Prep, huh?”

Dylan's forehead furrows in confusion.

“School. That’s where you’ll be going. Sandy Haven Prep.”

“Oh.” His tongue glides along his lower lip, the tip poking at the silver hoop. “Yeah.” He glances over at the kitchen. Then back at me.

We sit in simmering silence as I try not to stare, because ironically, the whole purposeful de-facing thing (pun intended) only draws moreattention to his already distractingly beautiful face. I don’t like it—whatever this thing is about him that draws you in, even as his eyes remain totally cold. The way his looks make it impossible to sweep over him with a dismissive glance—my usual M.O. when I meet a guy for the first time.

I'm saved by Sadie and Kenz, who come barreling down the hallway, giggling and out of breath.

“Let’s go talk to your new brother again!” Sadie squeals, and I can see Dylan’s whole body tense. He rakes his teeth across his full lower lip, grazing the tiny hoop.

The girls stumble to a halt in front of him, and Kenz climbs up next to her brother on the couch, completely missing the way he stiffens when she clasps his arm with both hands, her tiny fingers squeezing his sculpted bicep. Yes, I noticed his biceps. The guy might be lean, but he’s clearly ripped. Also, the shirtless ads already kind of gave that one away.

He eyes his sister warily as she snuggles up to him, pressing her flushed cheek against his bunched-up sleeve. “Hey, Dylan!”

He swallows. “Hey.”

Meanwhile, my sister stands a couple of feet away, studying him. She wipes a tangle of hair off her face with a sweaty palm. “If you’re her brother for real life,” she asks, “how come you don’t even look like her?”

Kenz tips her head back, giggling. “’Cos he’s a boy, silly,” she squeals, saving Dylan from answering.

“But how come he never even visited you before?”

Kenz drops one hand to her side but keeps clutching her brother’s shirt sleeve with the other. “Because he was lost.” She shrugs one shoulder casually. “But then my dad found him again.” And then, as an afterthought, she adds, “My dad is his dad, too.”

Sadie scrunches her nose, mulling that one over for a moment. She turns to Dylan. “How did you get lost?” She scrutinizes him, eyes wide, waiting for him to clarify.

He doesn’t.

Kenz peers up at her brother, tilts her head to one side, then looks back at Sadie. “Ummm. I think he was living with the wrong dad for a while? By accident, though. And his mamma died. And then my dad found him again lots and lots of days later, and that’s why he gets to be back in his real home.” She pulls up onto her knees, sliding her arm around Dylan’s wide shoulders as she looks up at him again. There’s a rigid alertness to his posture, but Kenz remains oblivious. “Right, Dylan?” she asks. “Is that how come you came to live with us?”

Dylan swallows again. “Yeah. Pretty much,” is all he says. And still, his expression doesn’t change. But I notice his chest rise and fall beneath his thin T-shirt as if it requires a little more exertion than a normal breath. And as my eyes slide lower, I spot his fist clenched in his lap. Full-on white knuckled beneath the rough scars. He notices me watching and instinctively unclenches his fist, flexing his fingers against his thigh.

Sadie keeps staring. “How did your mamma die? Was she—”

“Sadie,” I interrupt my sister. “Why don’t you and Kenz go play with that new pretend kitchen Diane got for the treehouse last week?”

Sadie pushes out a giant sigh. And Dylan’s piercing gaze locks onto mine, a flash of annoyance crossing his sharp features. Like he’s pissed at me for stepping in. Which makes no sense; he was clearly hating every second of that entire interrogation.

“Kenz, sweetheart…” The patio door slides open, and Phil appears on the threshold. “Give your brother some space, please.”

I glance at Dylan. Interesting that he doesn’t throw his father a shady scowl like he did with me when I stepped in.

“Daaaaddy…” Kenz stretches the word out, slowly pulling away. “We’re just talking.”

Phil takes a step inside. “That’s fine, sweetheart, but you can’t climb all over him. Just… please, back up a bit, alright?”

Dylan visibly relaxes when Kenz drops her hand. Phil waits. Hovering, again. Watching as Kenz sighs, “Fiiiiine…” then climbs off the couch. She grabs Sadie’s hand and drags her towards the patio doors. “Let’s go play in the treehouse ’till dinner’s ready.”

Phil stays in the doorway as the girls both scramble from the seating area, dashing past him to the deck, then down to the sloping lawn beyond. “You okay in here?” he asks, concerned focus still on his son.

“Yup,” Dylan cracks each knuckle on his left hand and the popping sound makes me cringe.

“Sure?”

“Yeah.” He does that thing again, where he pokes at his lip ring with the tip of his tongue. It’s ridiculously sexy.

I hate it.

Phil nods, then smiles at him. Then at me. “Burgers will be ready in a few,” he says, before closing the glass door almost reluctantly, and making his way back to the outdoor kitchen area.

“So?” I arch an eyebrow at Dylan. “Has he been hovering this much when it’s just your family?” It’s totally understandable. But still, weird. Probably even weirder for Dylan.

He shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“So ‘yes’, then.” I offer him a brief smile, which he doesn't return. And we sit in silence for a good few seconds after that, with the sound of mom and Diane chatting in the background, setting down dishes and gathering cutlery.

“I swear these dinners aren’t normally this deadly,” I finally say. “With all the exhausting small-talk and everything…” I roll my eyes. “So, yeah, if you need a break from it, I can just shut up.” I take a sip of Coke as he stares on stoically. “Or I can keep babbling. I’m easy.”

“It’s fine,” he says again. “I can do this all night.”

Okaaay… Was that a joke? Or was he being serious? Also, is being nice always this hard?

I forge on. "Is there anything you want to know? About Sandy Haven? Or about school?”

He swallows, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing against the smooth skin of his throat. He’s the kind of guy whose facial hair probably won’t come in until he’s in his early twenties, at least. “Sure,” he utters, his tone coarse and dark as slate.

God. It’s like pulling freakin’ teeth with this guy. “Anything specific?”

“Just whatever.”

“Alright. Sounds like a challenge.”

“Sounds like a boring night,” he counters, leaning forward.

What a dick.

His tongue glides not just across the lip ring this time, but across his full lower lip. “Going to the bathroom,” he mutters, rising from the plush couch.

“I thought you said you could do this all night,” I shoot back.

He doesn’t falter; just keeps unfolding his tall frame from the cushions. A stray lock of hair escapes whatever it is he’s used as a hair-tie, and it falls across his tanned forehead. “Guess I lied,” he says cooly, throwing me a dismissive glance before striding past the coffee table, towards the hallway. He moves like a panther: smooth and graceful and intimidating. He isn’t nearly as jacked as most of the guys on the football team, and yet he’s way more imposing. He looks infallible.

A gliding noise across the room steals my attention, and I look up in time to see Phil hovering in the narrow opening again.

“Everything alright?” His eyes lock on Dylan’s retreating form, wrinkles creasing his brow.

Dylan keeps walking. “Just going to the bathroom,” he says evenly, barely turning his head. He doesn’t seem angry or upset or anything. Just stone-cold still. Like the water in nearby Allerston Lake on a crisp winter morning. He doesn’t even glance back at me, which pisses me off even more.

I’m not used to having absolutely no effect on a guy, and it makes me uneasy. It makes me feel like I’m not the one in control. And that’s not something I’m okay with.