The afternoon sun through the passenger window hits her just right, highlighting her fiery hair, sapphire eyes, and the delicate spray of freckles over her rosy cheeks. She threw on the simplest outfit—jeans and a t-shirt—but there’s nothing simple about how plain clothes make her seem bolder. Hair redder. Eyes brighter. Even her hope in me emanates across the cab when she flashes a smile. Everything about her is soft and lovely, from how her top hangs off one shoulder to the fuzzy sweater she carries.

It’s hard not to cut glances at her.

To hang on her words and marvel at her incredible hobby. She creates games? Who does that?

To wonder what else I don’t know about her.

To wonder what it’d be like to let my touches linger.

She didn’t need my help down the stairs or into the truck, but my hands went to her anyway. To protect her, yes, but mostly from longing. I miss having a reason to touch her. When she stood in the doorway of her game room, nervously explaining her hobby, all I could think about was bringing my face into the crook of her neck to feel the softness of her hair and catch her perfume—something like vanilla and lavender. Supporting her down the steps provided an opportunity, but I regret it now. Touching her once has me craving to do it more.

Damn it. I can’t have these thoughts, not about her. I’m too old for her, too surly, too gray against her vivid color.

I need that reality repeating through my head, but flipped—she’s too young, too beautiful, too goddamn rosy for me—because the more I see her, the more I want to see her. And I have no business wanting more of her at all.

My eyes shift her way again. She angles sideways against the door with her leg propped, like she wants to engage in conversation but doesn’t know where to start. She fidgets with the buttons on the sweater, looking apprehensive.

“This is nice, but I like The Beast better,” she says.

“Really?”

“It’s got character.” She turns even more in her seat, wincing slightly but looking hopeful. “Do I get a hint, at least?”

Her hopes rattle my nerves. What am I doing? Suddenly, putting lovely Marina inside Wade’s store feels like the worst idea in history. Like hanging the Mona Lisa in a dive bar and letting drunks throw darts at it. These things don’t belong together.

But do they belong together more than Marina at a funeral home? I don’t know.

I wrangle my anxiety and tell her the truth. “Do you know the G&G?”

Her brow cocks high on her forehead. “That sketchy place by the swamp?”

Shit. “Yeah, Uncle Wade owns it, and he needs help.”

Her face scrunches with confused contemplation.