But it was just peachy to bother the shit out of me.

I pull out of the parking lot. “What were you drinking?”

“Jägermeister.” She groans, bringing the bag closer.

And I laugh out loud. “Hope you enjoyed it—chances are you’ll never drink it again.”

When it comes to mild alcohol poisoning, the body may forgive but the stomach never, ever forgets.

She holds her own against the urge to vomit, breathing slow and deep. “Is this when you lecture me about the dangers of underage drinking?”

I roll to a stop at a red light. “Nope. You already know you were stupid—you don’t need me to tell you that. I am curious though—what brought on the sudden binge?”

Her words are slow and careful, like she’s afraid if she talks too loud it will offset the delicate balance that’s keeping her from retching. “Matthew Applegate threw the party. He told me about it in school today. He’s a senior. He’s gorgeous and perfect and he seemed interested in me.”

Anger sparks, like the flick of a match—because I have no doubt the little prick was interested in some part of her.

“But when I got to the party,” she whispers, “he was all over Samantha Frey.”

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say Samantha has a reputation for putting out? Big boobs, nice face—probably a cheerleader?”

Riley nods. “She was the homecoming queen.”

Oh man.

“And that’s when you made friends with the Jäger?”

She wipes at her cheeks. “It made me feel happy. I didn’t care about Matthew or my . . . I didn’t care about anything.”

I blow out a long breath and decide to hand out some advice. “Riley, boys your age . . . are really not worth your time. They’re selfish and stupid. It’s not their fault; they’re just programmed that way—but they’re still a lost cause. I think you should stay away from all of them until you’re at least . . . twenty-five. Or . . . have you considered being a lesbian?”

She looks at me blankly. “That is so offensive.”

I raise one hand. “Just trying to be helpful.”

Riley turns to stare out the window. After a few minutes her chin quivers and her shoulders tremble.

Here’s the thing—I don’t have a lot of experience with crying females. I’ve made a concentrated effort to avoid any situation that involves me, women, and tears. In case you haven’t noticed, empathy isn’t my strong point. And crying teenagers? This feels kind of like a bigfoot encounter—I’ve heard about it on TV, read about it in the papers . . . but this is the first time I’ve actually seen one close-up.

She wipes her face on the sleeve of her sweater. “I miss my parents.”

And my chest feels weighted. Heavy. For her.

“I know you do.”

“I wish they were here.” She sniffles.

“What would you say to them if they were?” I pull up the McQuaid driveway and put the car in park.

Riley thinks about my question and then the corner of her mouth tugs. “I would ask them how come Matthew doesn’t like me. They were always really honest with us, you know? They would tell me the truth.”

I look at her face. She’s a pretty girl, even tired and grieving. But there’s a fire in her, a fierceness, that will serve her well when she’s grown. I’ve seen it in women I’ve worked with—women like Sofia. One day, Riley McQuaid will be a force to be reckoned with.

“I can tell you the truth about that,” I say with a shrug.

She turns to me.

Gently, I wipe a tear from her cheek. “It’s because Matthew is an idiot.”

• • •

Chelsea opens the door before we knock. Looking just-fucked gorgeous with bed-mussed wavy hair and her do-me glasses on her face. She’s wearing a black tank top and silky red pajama pants. My dick is still pretty pissed, but the sight of her breasts peeking above the top of her shirt makes him consider speaking to me again. Eventually.

“We really need to stop meeting like this,” she says, her plump lips sliding into a familiar smile.

Riley hugs her aunt forcefully. “I’m sorry, Aunt Chelsea.”

She runs her hand down the back of Riley’s hair. “I know.” Then she turns her head in disgust. “Did you vomit in your hair?”

“Yeah,” Riley groans, sounding miserable.

Chelsea holds her cheek. “Let’s get you into bed—we’ll talk about this tomorrow. There will be grounding in your future.”

She tilts her head toward the family room. “Come on in, Jake. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

And she doesn’t have to tell me twice.

About twenty minutes later, Chelsea walks back into the living room.

“It was kind of cold, so I started a fire.” I gesture to the flickering flames that glow inside the brick fireplace. Heat seeps into the room like a mist, the crackle and scent of live fire comforting. “Hope you don’t mind.”

She gazes at the fire like a woman staring at a chocolate cake the day after she got off her diet. “I don’t mind at all—thank you. You’ll have to show me what you have up your sleeve . . .”

Up my sleeve, down my pants. I’ll show her anything she wants to see.

“. . . I haven’t been able to get it going—the logs smolder but don’t really burn for me.” The orange flames dance in her eyes as she turns to me, teasing. “I was a terrible Girl Scout.”