Page 23 of No Judgements

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Mrs. Hartwell said kindly. “Drew!”

Chapter Ten

Time:10:18P.M.

Temperature:80ºF

Wind Speed:13 MPH

Wind Gust:21 MPH

Precipitation:0.0 in.

All the blood in my veins froze.

“What?” I said. “No. No, no, no, that is not at all necess—”

But it was too late. She was already calling across the festively lit yard to her nephew. “Drew? Oh, Drew!”

“No, really, Mrs. H.” I was dying inside. “I’m perfectly fine—”

Even as I said the words, however, I could see Drew loping obediently toward his aunt, Socks the dog—who’d been won over by his new master completely with only a few pieces of brisket—trotting at his side.

“You rang?” Drew’s expression was at once curious and sardonic as he stood before his aunt, taking in, no doubt, my burning cheeks.

“Bree has the breakfast shift at the café tomorrow and needs to leave now,” Mrs. Hartwell said. “She rode her bike here, alone, and you know it isn’t safe for any young girl to be out this time of year by herself.” Young girl? Since when was twenty-five a young girl? “Could you walk her home?”

The last thing I wanted was to look into those eyes of Drew Hartwell’s one more time.

But of course as soon as I raised my gaze to meet his, there they were: those bright blue irises, the same color as the water in Mrs. Hartwell’s pool... and gleaming just about as brightly.

“Sure.” Drew gave me one of his snarky half grins. “Guess I owe you one, anyway, right, Fresh Water?”

That grin. Oh God, that grin.

“Honestly,” I said again. “I don’t need—”

“Then that’s decided.” Lucy Hartwell gave a satisfied clap of her hands. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Bree. Nevaeh, Katie, will you help me bring those dips inside? They’ve sat outside in the heat long enough, I think it’s time they went into the AC of the dining room.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The girls rushed to help the older woman.

“Really,” I said, striding after Drew as he headed for the back gate. “I don’t need an escort home. Nothing’s going to happen to me in Little Bridge Island, of all places.”

“Hey.” Drew held up both hands in a “What-do-you-want-from-me?” stance as both Socks and I followed him. “I do what Lu tells me to. I’ve learned better than not to follow her orders.”

“And I appreciate that.” We were in the front yard, whichwas appreciably quieter—and darker—than the back, lit only by the front porch lamp and the glare from the decorative streetlights, streaming through the branches of the large gumbo-limbo trees that took up most of his aunt and uncle’s lawn. The fragrance of night-blooming jasmine was heavy in the air. “But she’s not here now, and I’m telling you, I’m fine.”

“This your bike?”

Other party guests had chained their bicycles to streetlamps as well, but Drew zeroed in on mine.

“Why do you think that one’s mine?” I asked. “Because it’s purple?”

“That,” he said, poking at the wicker basket, “and the plastic flowers. They’re a nice touch.”

“Yes, it’s mine,” I growled ungraciously, stooping to unlock it. “I happen to like flowers.”

“I’m not saying anything against flowers.” He watched as Socks sniffed his aunt’s fence. It was a white picket, which the Little Bridge Island historic board had deemed was the only acceptable kind of fence for homeowners to install. “The bike just looks like something you’d own, that’s all.”