This wasn’t the first time she’d been given currency up front, since renters who hadn’t yet opened local bank accounts sometimes had enough cash on them, but it always made her a little wary. Never would she carry that amount of money in her purse, but Luke acted as if it was natural and he intended to move in that very night.

“So where’re you from?” J.D. asked as they walked outside to the spot where Luke’s truck was parked.

“All over.”

“You must’ve started out somewhere.”

“Yep.”

“But not from around here,” J.D. prodded.

“Nope. Texas. A little town east of El Paso.” With an enigmatic smile, he climbed into his truck, ground the gears and backed out of the shady drive.

“I don’t trust him,” J.D. said once the truck had rounded the corner, leaving a trail of smelly blue exhaust in its wake. They stood on the porch together as the shadows of evening began to stretch across the parched grass.

“You don’t trust anyone,” she observed, but understood what J.D. was saying; Luke was the kind of man who made people edgy, not so much by what he said as by what he didn’t say—a man who didn’t give out much information but took in a whole lot.

“Not true.” One side of J.D.’s mouth lifted and Tiffany’s heart skipped a silly little beat. As easily as if he’d done it a thousand times before, he wrapped his arms around her waist. “But people have to earn my trust and it takes time.”

“Does it?”

His face was so close to hers that she noticed the webbing of colors—blue and green—beneath the gray of his eyes. “Yep. A long time.” He kissed her then, and her insides melted. His lips were firm and warm. So damned inviting. She and he were becoming familiar—way too familiar—and the feel of him, of his hands locked behind the small of her back, was a sensation she didn’t want to give up. Ever.

When he lifted his head, she smiled, sighed, then rested her head against his shoulder. “James Dean Santini, what in the world am I going to do with you?” she asked as the moon began to rise.

“Good question. I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

“They say that great minds think alike.”

“Do they?” he asked, his voice deep, his gaze so intense that she had to look away, at anything. She chose her watch and felt a frisson of dread. “Stephen’s so much later than usual.”

“He’s a thirteen-year-old boy.”

“I know, I know, and he’s chronically pushing his curfew back, but not by more than fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”

“He’ll show up.” J.D. was confident. Always.

“I hope so.”