I roll my eyes as the elevator door opens. “See you tomorrow, David.”

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“Home.”

He checks his watch. “It’s only three!”

“I have a headache,” I lie, and am saved from further conversation as the elevator doors close, carrying my personal pain-in-the-ass back upstairs. The truth is, I’m going home to curl up under my covers and ponder this morning’s revelations. I’m going home to hide from life, and from my father before he gets back from LA this afternoon, until I decide how best to address his deep betrayal.

“You’re off early for a change,” Gus notes as I push through the security gate, my laptop bag strap already digging into my shoulder.

“Long day.” I steal a glance at Kyle, who’s occupied with a phone call, his free arm settled across his chest, making his bicep bulge. He was lean when I knew him, but far from scrawny. Now, though . . . what would it feel like to smooth my hands over his sculpted body like I used to do?

Kyle is available, that voice in the back of my mind reminds me, and with it brings that familiar flutter in my stomach.

“Nothing like that’s been delivered yet, ma’am,” I hear him say politely, his golden gaze settling on me. “Sure thing. I’ll keep an eye out for that cookie platter . . .” His lips curl into a smile and, for the first time in years, I see it actually reaching his eyes. Reminding me just how much I always loved feeling his smiles on me. “No, I’ll make sure Gus doesn’t eat any of them this time.”

“What’s she goin’ on about! I’ve never stolen anyone’s cookies!” Gus sputters, but it’s followed up with a sheepish grin. “I may have sampled one or two.” He winks at me before his brown eyes shift behind me. “Good to see you again, sir. Hope your trip was successful. Where were you this time?”

“Chicago, to look at an investment property,” comes my dad’s gruff response.

He wasn’t supposed to be back for another hour.

And I thought he was in LA?

My heart begins pounding in my chest as I smooth my expression and turn to meet my father’s stern face.

Is it true? Did you pay Kyle to break my heart?

I’ve always known that there is this hard, controlling side to him. I’ve just been fortunate enough to avoid its wrath. Or so I thought.

“Piper?” He frowns curiously. “You okay?”

I force a smile. I guess this confrontation is happening now after all. Because Kyle is standing right there. The boy he paid off is only a few feet away.

I brace myself, waiting for him to look at Kyle, waiting for those harsh features to scowl with recognition when it clicks.

Dad checks his watch. “You meeting someone?”

“No. Headache.” My blood is racing with the anticipation of what’s to come. What will I do? How will I react?

“Hmmm . . .” His brow furrows. “Go home and get some rest, then.”

“Yeah. That’s the plan.”

He cocks his head curiously at me, but then, as if deciding something, turns his attention away.

To Kyle.

His eyes narrow, and I hold my breath, preparing myself to intervene before my father causes a scene in our building’s lobby.

“There’s a panhandler near the east entrance. I’m assuming you can’t see him on the security feed and that’s why you haven’t done anything about it?”

Kyle averts his gaze to one of the monitors on the desk. “You’re right. He’s in a blind spot.”

“Well, would you please help him relocate? Immediately?”

“Yes, sir,” Kyle says, his eyes still on the screen, his face stoic. Does it burn his pride to call my father sir, I wonder?

Dad’s gaze drifts over Kyle’s sleeve of tattoos, his distaste for them clear. And then he turns to me, dismissing Kyle entirely. “Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Nodding at Gus, he swipes his badge and marches toward the bank of elevators.

Kyle exhales slowly. He meets my eyes and I can see his thoughts in them. They’re the same as mine: Kieran Calloway doesn’t recognize him.

Whether it’s the “Stewart” on his name badge, or thirteen years and thirty pounds of muscle, or simply the fact that Kyle was nothing more than an ant to squash, a pest for my father to swiftly deal with, I can’t say. Likely all of the above.

Either way, Kyle is safe from my father’s ire. For now.

I release a lung’s worth of air, relieved to have bought myself some time to figure out how—and if—to confront him for what he did to us.

“You want to kindly escort our friend to another corner, or should I?” Gus peers up at Kyle.

“I’ve got it,” Kyle murmurs, rounding the desk. “See you tomorrow, Piper?” he asks softly, and I hear the real question behind those words.

Do you want to see me here tomorrow?

All I can manage is a nod.

Because the simple truth is that I do.

Chapter 14

THEN

2006, Camp Wawa, End of Week One

Izzy’s round blue eyes are watery as she holds out her tiny hand, offering me a ball of hot pink gimp and beads in emerald green and aqua blue.

“For me?”

She nods. “I made it in art. So you can remember me.”

I chuckle as I slide the bracelet onto my wrist. It’s too loose, but there’s not enough slack for two loops. “I doubt I’ll ever be able to forget you.”

“Will you be my counselor again next year?”

“I hope so!” If Camp Wawa allows counselors who have been on probation back. That was the final verdict Darian delivered early this morning, after last night’s golf-cart fiasco. Probation for all four of us—a permanent black mark on our camp counselor employment record—but not termination for Kyle and Eric. There is to be absolutely no “shenanigans” after lights-out. We’re to be in our cabins with our campers, asleep. If we’re caught breaking these rules, it will equal immediate dismissal, no questions asked.

As much as mandatory nightly curfew sucks, it means I still get to spend my summer with Kyle. I had to fight the urge to hug Darian as she delivered our punishment to us.

Izzy’s mouth splits into a wide, toothy grin. It’s been a mad flurry of activity and emotion at Wawa today, as kids pack up and part ways, in most cases with tears streaming down their cheeks and scraps of papers revealing email addresses and phone numbers, and promises to come back the same week next year.