Page 7 of Tempt

Plus that one time I hit on him, I crashed hard enough to leave rugburn on my ego for a week.

Daniel pulls out onto the street, the black RAM truck purring.

Elmwood is a pretty town, the kind with perfect flower baskets lining the streets in the summer and evergreen decorations all winter.

We skirt the edge of campus, Daniel pausing to let a group of laughing students cross before turning onto Cyprus Lane.

Halfway down, he slows in front of one of the many Queen Anne houses. It’s lighter than Sawyer’s across the road.

“It’s beautiful,” I say as he parks in the driveway.

“My parents took good care of it. I try to do the same.”

He clearly succeeds.

The lawn is bright and green even at the end of the summer, the paint fresh, the driveway recently paved.

“So this is where you grew up?”

“Bought it a few years ago.” He cuts the engine. “I’ve got the bags,” he says as he shifts out.

I help Andy out of the truck, which doesn’t take much as he’s already out of his seat.

The boy runs to the mailbox, tugging open the door and pulling open a fistful of mail.

“You know the rules.”

Andy hands over the mail to Daniel, who barely has a spare hand but finds a way.

I’m not sure what kind of rule there is that a eight-year-old can’t handle envelopes, but whatever.

The mailbox flag is lying on the ground next to the post.

“It broke off in a storm,” Daniel says, bending to grab it and sticking it inside the box.

“You’re a terrible homeowner,” I deadpan.

“I need to get the right screws to reattach it.” He glances over his shoulder on our way to the porch, smiling a little when he realizes I’m joking.

My stomach rumbles as we head inside.

The hallway has beautiful wood floors, probably original to the house, but fresh warm paint that makes it feel modern. Inside it’s renovated, the kitchen opened up to form one big square with the living room, an island between.

“I could make something fresh.” Daniel sets the bags on the counter.

“Excuse me?”

“It takes as long as cooking this.” He pulls the package out, reading the directions.

“Yes! Make fettuccine Alfredo,” Andy pleads.

“Kat?”

My stomach growls again.

“Can I help? I’m a terrible cook.”

His mouth curves. “You’re off the hook. Hang with Andy.”

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