The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys #1)(4)

“I guess.”

“So, come on.”

I climbed back into my room and Miller followed. I moved the lamp to make room for him as he crawled across my desk and gracefully jumped down.

“Now we know the trellis can hold both of us,” I said.

Not sure why I felt that was important, except that something told me, even then, that this wasn’t going to be the last time Miller came up to my room.

But having him there, up close, and in the light of my desk lamp my insides felt funny. A little bit scared, a little bit nervous, a little bit excited. He was taller than me by a few inches, and his blue eyes looked miles deep. Filled with thoughts and a heaviness I didn’t see in any kid I knew, except maybe my best friend, Shiloh.

He saw me watching him and how my hands were clutched together in front of me.

“What?” he asked warily.

“I don’t know,” I said, pushing my glasses up and fidgeting with a lock of my black hair. “Now that you’re up here, it’s a little…different.”

“I’m not going to steal anything. And I won’t hurt you, Violet. I never would. But I’ll go if you want.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

Miller’s brows unfurrowed for a moment, softening his entire face, and his bunched shoulders loosened.

“Okay,” he said roughly. “I’ll stay.”

My heart squeezed with a little ache at how grateful he sounded. Like he wasn’t used to be wanted around, maybe.

He looked away from me—I was probably staring—to take in my impeccably neat room with its queen-sized bed and white, ruffled comforter. Bookshelves took up the wall facing the window, and posters of Michelle Obama, Ruth Bader Ginsberg, and the soccer player, Megan Rapinoe, up on the walls.

“Don’t all girls cover their walls with movie or rock stars?”

“Yes, because all girls are exactly the same,” I said with a grin. “These are my inspirations. Michelle reminds me to stay classy, Ruth keeps me honest, and Megan pushes me to do my best. I play soccer, too.”

“Cool.” Miller’s eyes widened, taking in my en suite bathroom. “You have your own bathroom? Wow. Okay.” He gave his head a disbelieving shake. He looked almost mad.

“Okay, so um, hang tight,” I said. “I’ll go get the cake.”

I left Miller in my room and shut the door quietly behind me, then crept along the long hallway, passing guestrooms and bathrooms, toward the staircase. My nervousness tried to creep back in.

It’s a little bit crazy to let a perfect stranger into our house. You know that, right?

But I was a straight-A student, and teachers were always telling me how smart I was, how I had a knack for remembering facts. And the fact was, Miller had shown concern for my safety no less than three times in our short conversation. His grouchiness came from suspicion, like he couldn’t figure out why I was being nice to him.

Because he’s not used to people being nice to him. Or bedrooms with attached bathrooms.

In our huge, granite-and-stainless-steel kitchen, I took the birthday cake box out of the fridge. The sound of Miller’s growling stomach echoed in my head, so I filled a Trader Joe’s shopping bag with paper plates, a bag of tortilla chips, a jar of salsa, two cans of Coke, forks and napkins. I slung the bag on my shoulder, carried the cake box with both hands, and snuck back upstairs.

I fumbled my bedroom door open. Miller was gone.

“Crap.” My shoulders slumped with disappointment that bit harder than I expected. Then I nearly dropped the cake box when Miller appeared from my walk-in closet.

“Wasn’t sure if it was you,” he said.

“I thought you bailed on me.”

“Still here.” He eyed my grocery bag, and his voice tightened. “What’s all that?”

“Food. I’ve been studying all night—”

“You study in the summer?”

“Yes. I take high school prep classes. I’m going to be a doctor someday. A surgeon. That takes years of school and training so I’m trying to get ahead.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“So, I was studying, and it made me hungrier than I realized. It’s not much. Just chips and salsa and soda. Plus, birthday cake. Not exactly Health Food Weekly’s snacks of choice…”

Miller said nothing, and I sensed that he was too smart to fall for my thinly disguised charity. His hunger must’ve overcome his pride, though, because he didn’t argue but let me set up our small picnic on the floor, shielded by the bed should a parental unit walk in.

I sat against the wall while Miller sat perpendicular to me, against my bed, his long legs in front of him. I laid out the food, and we ate and talked about some of the kids at school he’d meet.

“The captain of the youth football team is the quarterback, River Whitmore,” I said and immediately wished I hadn’t made him my opener. My face flushed red. “Do you play football?”

“No.”

“Um, yeah, so he’s the quarterback.”

“You said that already.” Miller’s sharp gaze slid to me then away. “You like him.”

“What?” I practically shrieked, then lowered my voice. “No, I… Why do you think that?”

“Because of how you said his name. And your face got all red. Is he your boyfriend?”