Page 119 of Holding On To Good

“No, he’s not dead. He’s just working under there. Hello?” she said again, louder.

But those legs, they stayed still.

“He’s dead.” Ian scratched the side of his nose as if coming across corpses was just same old, same old in his world. “Do you think he’s stiff and cold?”

“He’s not dead,” Verity repeated.

If he was dead, Verity would have to call 911 and then Miles would show up, lights flashing, siren blaring, and demand to know what, exactly, she was doing here, at DiFonzio’s, after their little chat about Reed…

Reed Walsh is not for you.

Nope. Not even going to happen. Whoever was under that car couldn’t possibly be dead.

She’d never hear the end of it if he was.

Verity let go of Ian’s hand, crossed to the car and toed the side of one boot.

Both legs jerked, the boots kicking out, missing her ankle by an inch, as he reared up with a sharp clang.

“Fuck!”

She lifted her own hand to her head in sympathy.

Ouch. That had to hurt.

Keeping his attention firmly on the now moving legs, Ian did a sidestep over to Verity. “You were right,” mini captain obvious said, sounding almost disappointed. “He’s not dead.”

She smiled down at him. God, she loved how this kid’s mind worked. “Told you.”

Reed rolled out from under the car and everything seemed to slow down—time, Verity’s heartbeat, her ability to breathe—as bits and pieces of him came into view.

And, oh, what lovely bits and pieces they were.

First it was his lower legs, then the rip in his jeans at the left knee. Next came a pair of muscular thighs and a noticeable bulge behind his zipper. A flat torso covered in a grease-stained gray T-shirt came next, followed by a wide chest, broad shoulders and then that stupid, overly pretty face she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.

He looked just as good as he had two weeks ago, albeit grungier. They had matching hairstyles today—her ponytail smooth and high up on her head, his straggly and low—and while the golden stubble on his face was thicker than it had been, it was still patchy.

Once clear of the car, Reed jackknifed into a sitting position, his little cart thing rolling forward with the momentum, and glared at her, one hand holding the right side of his forehead.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Scowl deepening, he let go of his head and reached up to take out a pair of wireless earbuds. “What?”

Well, honestly. “You shouldn’t wear those when you’re working.”

“Thanks for the tip,” he grumbled, planting his feet then standing in one smooth motion. “You said a bad word,” Ian told Reed.

“Before you reprimand somebody for swearing,” Verity told her nephew, “you should probably introduce yourself first.”

“Oh.” He pushed his glasses up. “Okay.” He looked up at Reed. “I’m Ian Jennings.”

“The cop’s kid?” Reed asked Verity, not sounding too happy about that prospect.

“No. My brother Silas’s.” When he didn’t have anything to say to that, didn’t have anything to say at all, she prompted, “Now you tell Ian your name.”

His eyebrows rose as if he was unfamiliar with proper manners, the rules of etiquette and basic human interaction. “Reed.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ian said, bless his sweet, polite soul. “You said a bad word.”

---