Page 4 of Even in the Dark

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 longthatstays in. Not long, I’m betting, ifDiane 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 aboy,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.”

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