His castle had long disappeared, crushed by the waves.
A gray-haired couple strolling by had dared to compliment him on his flair for castle building.
My brother’s eyes immediately darted to Maria. The last thing he needed was to get in trouble—
again—for doing everything for me; he had already missed two consecutive nights of TV time
because of that.
“It’s not mine, it’s my sister’s. She made it—all by herself,” he huffed at the couple.
Maria didn’t catch him … not that day.
When Bill died, my whole life fell apart in a flash. It was like my crutches had suddenly been
ripped from me and I had to run a marathon, without first having even learned how to walk on my
own. Thanks to my big brother, who I loved more than anyone, I had no idea how to do anything
for myself. Nothing could fill the overwhelming space that my overbearing brother had left in my
life, and just the thought of letting anyone else do anything for me was, to me, an out-and-out
betrayal to Bill.
My crutch-less legs eventually grew muscle mass, and I figured out how to take care of myself.
But I never did figure out how to build my own sand castle.
While my feet dangled in the crystal water of the pool, I wondered, as I often did, what my life
would have been like if Bill hadn’t died. Would I have left my parents, their money, their big
plans, and moved to Callister?
Would I have found myself in this armed-guard mansion that was owned by a tattooed, bullet-
holed, twenty-something boy who made me feel … different?
Only over Bill’s dead body could this have happened. Of this, I was positive.
I did eventually get up and walk back into the house. Cameron had long since disappeared around
the corner.
In the kitchen, Rocco was making himself some lunch: baloney and a puddle of mustard slapped
between two pieces of white bread, ten times over, stacked on a plate. He was bantering with a
guy who was sitting at the table.
I kept my head down and pulled a can of pop out of one of the fridges. The carbon bubbles
exploding in my throat made my eyes water. When I looked up, I saw bright blue eyes—and a shot
of carrot orange hair spiked into a short cropped Mohawk—eagerly waiting for me. He was built
like a linebacker and had a sleeve of tattoos and a metal rod pierced through his lower lip.
He slid out the solid wood chair that was next to him. “Why don’t you come sit by me for a bit
so that I can take a better look at you?” He was English; the thick accent gave him away. I
glanced at Rocco, but he was too preoccupied with choking down bear-sized bites to be of any
assistance.
I held my pop can in both hands, sat down, and leaned my elbows on the table. The guy’s tree-
trunk arm was around my shoulder as soon as my bum hit the seat—I only flinched a little bit.
For the most part, it was, oddly … nice—he was extremely warm, and I was always cold.
What I was uncomfortable with, however, was his eyeing me inches away from my face. Nobody
should ever be scrutinized from such close proximity.
“Well!” he finally boomed with satisfaction, “You are a real ginger! Just like me.” He
tapped his speared red hair and turned to Rocco. “This was meant to be. Letting this one in was
the best mistake you ever made, Kid.”
Rocco had amazingly already hit the bottom of his sandwich stack.
“I didn’t make any mistakes,” he countered with a mouthful. “Emily’s just really sneaky.”
I was thinking of interjecting Rocco’s subjective account, but was beaten to the punch by my
human blanket.
“Aye,” he agreed with Rocco and winked at me. “You definitely have to watch us gingers.
We’ll get you every time.”
Rocco grumbled and strolled back to the kitchen.
“Emily,” the human blanket rolled off his tongue. “That’s your name?”
I smiled dimly.
He extended his free hand across and shook mine. “I’m Griff.”
After a good squeeze, he took his hand back and glimpsed at his watch. “Geez! I gotta get back
to work.”
He pushed away from the table; everything on the main floor shook with him. He walked around me,
placed his large hand on the back of my chair, and extended the other to me. “Come keep me
company?”
Rocco had brought back a new loaf of bread, a butter knife, and an unopened jar of peanut butter
… dessert. I took Griff’s hand while he pulled my chair out. He was beaming.
When we got to the front door, Griff shouldered the shotgun that was leaned against the wall
waiting for him.
“Is it loaded?” I croaked.
He raised one eyebrow. “What do you think?”