Vendetta (Blood for Blood #1)(26)

Rich much? I bit my tongue again. “What does that mean?”

“‘Family before everything.’”

“Cool,” I said, somewhat ineptly. “When my mom’s dad died, he had ‘All dressed up with nowhere to go’ written on his gravestone.”

Nic’s confused expression was unsurprisingly endearing.

“He was an atheist,” I added by way of explanation.

“Oh.” His bewilderment morphed into a wry smile. “A funny atheist.”

“He died the way he lived — making jokes that pissed off my grandmother.”

I bent down and started rifling through the cabinets behind the counter — there were folded aprons, grimy old sweaters, and somebody’s pair of track pants. Probably mine.

Nic continued to rummage through the papers along the countertop. “Would your manager mind you being in here?”

“My keys aren’t up there,” I said, opening another cupboard and fishing around inside — nothing but dust bunnies and broken pens. “They’re probably in one of these cubbyholes.”

I looked up at Nic. He had picked up a menu and was studying it.

“Would he mind?” he asked again.

“No.” I tried a different nook and felt the tips of my fingers brush against something jagged and metal. “I’ll lock up after us. He won’t even know we were here.”

I could hear sheets of paper rustling around as Nic leafed through them, pausing at some before stashing them away again.

“Where is he anyway?”

I shifted my shoulder so I could reach farther inside the narrow nook. “Who?”

“Your manager.”

“His friend died, so he went to visit the family. I don’t know where he is now.” I paused as my uncle’s disapproving face meandered into my mind, all red and puffy. With a pang I realized I missed him. I hoped he would call me soon.

I closed my hands around the keys, feeling their familiar edges with a flicker of triumph.

Nic had stopped shuffling. “So he just didn’t come back?”

I pulled them out — one brass diner key, another silver one for the smaller lock, my purple house key, and a glitzy Eiffel Tower key ring from Millie. I sprang to my feet and dangled the keys triumphantly in front of me.

“Got ’em!” I dropped them into my bag.

Nic’s smile pulled more to one side, pushing against his right cheekbone. We stood a foot apart, no longer distracted by the search, and with nowhere else to look but at each other. Suddenly our surroundings felt a lot more intimate. Standing alone and sopping wet in the diner, my awareness of him spiked, and I was conscious of every exhale being louder than it should be.

“Do you want me to give you a ride home?” he asked. “It’s still coming down pretty hard out there. I don’t want you to melt into a puddle.”

“Are you implying I’m a witch?”

Nic feigned a horrified expression. “Absolutely not. I am ever the gentleman.”

“Except for when you’re knocking over girls outside your house and breaking into diners in the middle of the night,” I pointed out. I thought about adding a switchblade comment but stopped myself, thinking of his father and everything he had just confided in me.

He nodded solemnly. “Yes. Except for then.”

I hesitated. “A ride home would be great.”

I followed him back to the other end of the diner, focusing on the lighter streaks of chestnut in his dark hair.

As Nic glided toward the door, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, he surveyed the diner again. “This place is so … retro.”

“It’s an acquired taste.”

“Like my mother,” he surmised with a soft chuckle. “In fact, sometimes I think I’m still acquiring.”

“I feel that way about certain people, too.” I smiled, thinking of Jack and deliberately not thinking of his warning. He could be difficult and unpredictable, but once he was in your life, he was there for good, like a mole that makes up part of who you are.

“But I bet no one feels that way about you, Sophie.”

Oh, only about a thousand people in Cedar Hill. “You’d be surprised.”

“Would I?” Nic turned back to me, hovering across the threshold.

“We should go,” I murmured, forcing myself to focus on all the questionable things about this boy, and not the way he was making me lose my breath just by looking at me.

If Nic was disappointed, he didn’t show it. Instead, he unzipped his hoodie.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to me. “We’ll have to run to the car.” He kept his arm outstretched, leaving him in just a black T-shirt and dark jeans. His jaw tightened, and I felt as if he were daring me to refuse the gesture. “Please.”

“Well, if you insist.”

I took the sweatshirt and shrugged it on. It was at least four sizes too big. When I zipped it up and shook out the sleeves so that they fell over my hands, the severity in Nic’s expression faded. I fought the urge to twirl around so that the hoodie would fan out like a cape. Don’t be weird.

Nic was smirking at me.

“What?” I placed my hands — which were no longer visible — on my waist. “Have you never seen a drowned rat wearing an oversized hoodie before?”