A sudden unease washes over me. Is this a mistake? Too late now. What am I going to do? Shove the damn thing down my shirt and run away?
I thrust the photo in front of him before I can change my mind. He takes it, tilts it toward the light, and studies it before turning to me. “Are these kids from the Youth Center?”
I lean over, hit for a second by the scent of his cologne and warmth of his leg now against mine. “No, um”—I point to the scrawny girl in the middle, eighteen years old, flat-chested and knobby-kneed with long mousy-blond hair—“that’s me.”
He jerks his eyes to mine, his crystal-blue gaze roaming my face, and then back to the photo. “Wow.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Funny, right?”
“No, you’re cute.” He checks me out again and then goes back to the picture. “Mickey Mouse shirt. I see the Disney obsession started young.”
“Sad thing is I’m eighteen in that photo.”
He chuckles, and the sound soothes my racing heart.
“Was this taken at camp or something?” His fingertip glides along the photo. “Who’re all these kids?”
I worry my bottom lip with my teeth. “Oh, um . . . those are my brothers and sisters.”
Another jerk and his eyes are huge, framed in dark eyelashes that curl up at the ends, and twinkling with interest. “No kidding. That explains why you’re so good with the kids.”
“You’re not so bad either, ya know.”
Is he blushing? “So who’s who?”
I lean closer and point out individual faces. “That’s Isaac, Leah, Zander, Zoe, Aaron, Josiah . . .” I move through them all until I end on the last. “And um . . . that is, or was, my older sister Lana.”
“Was . . .” There’s sadness, a longing in his voice as if he feels her loss too just from that one word.
“Yeah, she died shortly after this picture was taken.” I study the photo with him, and he tilts it more toward the light.
It was just weeks before her twenty-second birthday. She’d followed in the path my parents laid out for us, drawn to ministry and selflessly serving others. I can’t remember a time where she was even in trouble, whether it be school or at home. She was the perfect daughter.
Unlike me.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He clears his throat. “So most of them are adopted.” He runs a finger over the faces that represent almost every color, race, and nationality.
“Not most of us, all of us.”
He grunts in recognition. “You and your sister look like you could be related.”
“We are . . . were, I mean.” I lick my lips nervously and clear my throat. “We were both adopted from an orphanage in Rostov-on-Don.” He peeks up at me in a funny way that makes me smile. “Russia. My parents adopted all of us from different countries, ya know, before Brad and Angelina made it cool.”
He nods and goes back to studying the photo. “What was that like?”
“I don’t remember much from living there. I was too young. Lana was seven, and she remembered it being bad.”
He hands me back the picture but doesn’t meet my eyes. “That had to be hard.”
“Not for me. I always had Lana. She protected me from it all, more like a parent to me than a sibling.” I run my sweaty palms down my bare legs.
“I know the feeling.” His eyebrows drop low as he studies the carpet, and something tells me his thoughts aren’t on my sister or me.
“Yeah?” I’m grateful we’ve managed to skate over the details of her death and focus on him. It’s a morbid story that has the capability of ruining even the darkest moment.
“Drake’s always been a little shit. I swear the guy would’ve been arrested a dozen times if it weren’t for me.” He runs a hand through his hair, the blond waves sliding through his fingers like silk.
I grip his thigh and squeeze, and his eyes dart to where I’ve made contact as if my hand conducts electricity. “You’re a good brother. If he’s anything like me, he appreciates it.”
“I put my ass on the line for him more times than I can count.” Slowly, he moves his focus from my hand, up my arm, his gaze like a caress as it settles on my lips. His earlier, easy expression is now shrouded in worry. “Trix, I—” He blinks and leans away. “Shit, hold on.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. I breathe through the heat of the moment as the device vibrates in his hand. Whatever he sees on the caller ID has him hitting a button to silence it and shoving it back in his pocket.
“New phone?”
He turns toward me, his expression still etched with concern, which he quickly wipes clean. “It is.” We lock eyes as silent seconds tick between us. “My last one was shattered by a magnificent creature exiting a bathroom.”
I fight the urge to grin huge and goofily. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He cups my jaw and drops a slow lingering kiss against my lips. “I’m not.” His eyes slam closed, and it isn’t until seconds later I register the vibration coming from his pocket. “Shit.”
“What is it?”
He pulls away and scrubs a hand through his shaggy blond hair with a groan. “I gotta go.”