By the golden tone of his skin and his solid arm muscles that bulged every time he moved them, I decided he must have worked outside all summer—maybe baling hay or loading something heavy. His hazel-green eyes practically glowed, and his dark hair—although not as short as Travis’s—had been lightened by the sun, reminding me of Abby’s warm caramel color.

“I was going to take you to the Italian place here in town, but it’s cooled off enough outside to … I … I just wanted to hang out and get to know you instead of being interrupted by a waiter. So, I did that,” he said, nodding to the backseat. “I hope it’s okay.”

I tensed, turning slowly to see what he was talking about. In the middle of the bench seat, secured with a seat belt, was a covered woven basket sitting on a thickly folded blanket.

“A picnic?” I said, unable to hide the surprise and delight in my voice.

He breathed out, relieved. “Yeah. Is that okay?”

I flipped around in the seat, bouncing once as I faced forward. “We’ll see.”

Shepley drove us to a private pasture just south of town. He parked in a narrow gravel drive and stepped out just long enough to unlock the gate and push it open. The Charger’s engine growled as he drove down two parallel lines of bare ground amid the acres of tall grass.

“You’ve worn down a path, huh?”

“This land belongs to my grandparents. There’s a pond at the bottom where Travis and I used to go fishing all the time.”

“Used to?”

He shrugged. “We’re the youngest grandkids. We lost both sets of grandparents by the time we were in middle school. Besides being busy with sports and classes in high school, it just felt wrong to fish out here without Papa.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I still had all my grandparents, and I couldn’t imagine losing any of them. “Both sets? You mean, all three sets?” I said, wondering aloud. “Oh God, I’m sorry. That was rude.”

“No, no … it’s a valid question. I get that a lot. We’re double cousins. Our dads are brothers, and our moms are sisters. I know. Weird, huh?”

“No, that’s pretty great actually.”

After we cleared a small hill, Shepley parked the Charger under a shady tree ten yards from a five-ish-acre pond. The summer heat had helped grow the cattails and lily pads, and the water was beautiful, wrinkling in the light breeze.

Shepley opened my door, and I stepped out onto freshly mowed grass. As I looked around, he ducked into the backseat, reappearing with the basket and a quilt. His arms were free of any tattoos, also unlike his heavily inked cousin. I wondered if there were any under his shirt. Then I had the sudden urge to remove his clothes to find the answer.

He spread the multicolored quilt with one flick, and it fell perfectly to the ground.

“What?” he asked. “Is it—”