Page 112 of Losing Wendy

“Are you certain you’re doing the right thing?” I ask Peter one afternoon in the garden as he and I pick the vegetables Joel once tended to.

The feel of fresh soil on my hands is comforting, though it shouldn’t be. Not when Joel should be here, nurturing this garden, not me.

“What do you mean?” Peter says, plucking a tomato from the vine and biting into it, somehow managing not to spray juice all over hisclothes. He’s not wearing his leathers today. I suppose that would be impractical for gardening. Instead, he sports a fitted black shirt that makes no attempt to hide his muscular form and matching pants.

Staring at him when he’s not paying attention has been a welcome distraction from my racing thoughts, to say the least.

“Wendy Darling?”

I blink in an attempt to reassemble my thoughts. “By convincing the boys not to be afraid of each other. What if…what if they let their guard down?”

Peter shakes his head. “Fearing one another will only make them vulnerable. They’re safer trusting each other than they are letting the killer drive a wedge between them.”

When I don’t answer, Peter cocks his head to the side. “What’s going on in that mysterious mind of yours?”

“I just…” I bite my lip, hugging my torso, my wicker basket nudging my hip as I do. “What if the killer truly is one of the Lost Boys?”

He goes back to picking tomatoes. “It’s not.”

“But if you’re wrong—”

“It’s not one of the Lost Boys.”

Sensing that’s the end of the discussion, I don’t push any further. The idea of allowing the boys to continue to wander off in pairs fills me with unease. It’s selfish of me, but I’m glad John was clever enough to demand Smalls be his partner in watching Michael at the Den. I don’t exactly consider Smalls a suspect, and I feel the three of them are safer together. So far, the killer hasn’t dared strike within the Den.

I trace a circle in the soft, damp soil with my big toe. “Can I ask you something?”

“If you’re wondering why the onions are kept separate from the rest of the garden,” Peter says, gesturing toward the patch of ground across the field, “it’s because they’re an invasive species.”

“Kind of like fae.”

Peter offers me a grin. “I was going to say humans are theinvasive ones. We fae don’t reproduce often enough to be considered invasive.”

“I wasn’t going to ask about the onions, believe it or not.”

Peter runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t know, then. I might have to demand something in return.”

“And what is it I’m agreeing to?”

“Not sure. I’m sure I’ll be struck with a marvelous idea,” he says, gaze landing on my mouth.

I blush, tucking my hair behind my ear and rubbing dirt into it in the process. I’m still not over the way he looks at me, but I won’t be deterred. “How did you know Captain Astor?”

Peter’s smile falters, but he manages to catch it before it slips away. “Why do you ask?”

“I figured if you knew him, you might know something about why he killed my parents.”

Peter frowns. “Don’t you think I’d tell you if I knew?”

I laugh to hide my frustration. “Of course. But you didn’t know my parents. Perhaps if we put our knowledge together…”

Peter appears in front of me, dangling his mouth in front of mine. “Together? Now, that, I like the sound of.”

“Peter…” When I turn away, his lips brush my cheek, trailing a path to the fleshy part of my ear, which he bites playfully. Delight ripples through me, competing with my exasperation. “Peter,” I manage through giggles, squirming out of his arms. “Be serious. I want to know more about you.”

He places his hands on his hips, cocking a brow. “I thought you said this was about your parents. Had I known it was about me…” He winks, flooring me.

No.No. I’m not letting him charm his way out of discussing this. “Please.”

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