Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(53)

I would never guess he and Amber are twins. He’s definitely Sheriff Gabe’s son, though, with that same olive complexion, the strong jaw, and the tiniest cleft in his chin. He really is a good-looking guy.

And I’m staring at him.

“You look like you know cars,” I blurt out.

“I know a little bit.”

He doesn’t seem overly chatty, and yet this strange, giddy feeling inside compels me to say something. “You haven’t been back for a while.”

“You noticed?”

“Yeah. I mean . . . no. I mean . . . Meredith said you come home on weekends but you didn’t, so . . .” And now I’m rambling.

Jesse disappears behind the driver’s-side door. Seconds later, I hear that clicking sound again. He reappears, pulling the prop down and letting the hood slam shut. “It’s your alternator,” he informs me, lifting his hands to inspect them. “And a dozen other things.”

Alternator? “I don’t know car-speak. Is that a big deal?”

“Could be worse.” Jesse turns to face me, his dark eyes boring into mine. I automatically turn to give him my better profile. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.” He starts pulling the grocery bags out of the truck bed and carries them to his car in one arm, the muscles chording beautifully. He uses his free hand to pop his trunk. When I reach the passenger side, he’s already standing there, holding the door open.

The scent of leather and mint fills my nostrils as I slide into the passenger seat. Jesse waits for me to buckle my seat belt before he pushes the door closed—that’s rather nice, and unexpected—and then strolls around the front, his fingers sliding across the hood as he passes.

The gesture is familiar.

I’m momentarily distracted by the car’s interior—the soft black ceiling, the chrome gear stick, the wide backseat that now holds two large duffel bags—but that familiarity lingers. In fact, as I reach forward to skim the dash, it’s even stronger. Could this car be reminding me of some part of my life?

It only intensifies when Jesse cranks the engine and the vibrations reach deep into my chest.

“You all right?”

I smile. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He shifts into first gear and the car lurches forward. I instinctively brace myself, one hand grabbing the door while I reach for the console with the other, and accidentally grab his forearm, his skin hot against my fingertips. I pull back immediately, feeling my cheeks flush. “Sorry.”

He says nothing, throwing the car into second and then third gear, before reaching up to tune the radio. “Any preference?”

“No.” I quickly correct, “Just no trance music.”

Jesse swerves to avoid a pothole, tossing me back and forth a little. “Why not?” He sounds wary.

“I’m not sure, honestly.” How much has Jesse’s family told him about me? He knows I was in the hospital, but what else does he know?

Drums and guitars fill the speakers and I sigh with relief. I keep my eyes on the mountain range ahead as I absorb the beat, feeling Jesse’s gaze flicker between the road and my face several times. Thank God he can only see my good side.

“You saved me from a very long walk, so . . . thanks.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “No problem.”

I keep my eyes forward until he turns into the Welleses’ driveway. “Ginny doesn’t want my car in her driveway,” he explains.

Or you. “Yeah, she might have mentioned that before, once or twice.”

“Or a hundred times, I’m sure,” he mutters.

When we pull around to the back of the Welleses’ house—which they use as the front, with a giant sliding glass door off the kitchen—Sheriff Gabe is standing next to his cruiser, watching us. He doesn’t look happy.

What would it have been like, throwing your own son in jail? Being told that he had stabbed another teenager? No wonder they seem to have a strained relationship. I can’t imagine either has recovered completely from that experience.

Jesse hops out of the car to meet his dad head-on. No fear.

“I thought we agreed,” Sheriff Gabe says in a low, ominous tone.

“Ginny’s truck broke down,” I blurt out, pushing open the heavy door, feeling like I need to jump in and protect Jesse from his father’s anger. “Jesse, can I get my groceries, please?”

He pops the trunk and grabs the bags before I have a chance to reach for them.

“Where do you think you’re going with those?” Sheriff Gabe hollers after his son.

Jesse doesn’t bother stopping. “You want her to carry them all by herself?”

“I can make two trips,” I call out. Jesse ignores me and keeps heading toward the fence. I’m forced to speed walk—awkwardly—to catch up.

“I should probably bring these up to your place,” he says, throwing his long legs over the old wooden rails.

“That’s fine. I cook dinner there anyway.” Except for a few toiletries, a bag of oatmeal, and a tub of Nutella for Ginny’s daily breakfast and lunch, I would have brought it all up here.

He slows, allowing me to pass and head to my stairs, which are on the back side of the garage and not visible from any part of Ginny’s house.

My skin begins to tingle as I lead Jesse into my apartment. If he feels at all uncomfortable, he doesn’t let on, walking right in until he’s standing in the very center, his eyes taking in the little that I have.