Marrying Daisy Bellamy. Сьюзен Виггс

nights without TV or internet, and you’ll be begging for ‘Kumbaya’”

      “Right.” His cocky smile quickly and easily gave way to sweetness. Daisy wondered if he realized that.

      She found her dad as he was leaving the dining room. “Can we go make a fire on the beach?” Daisy asked.

      “You and Julian?” His suspicious eyes flicked from her to the tall kid.

      “Duh. Yeah, Dad. Me and Julian.” She tried to maintain her attitude. She didn’t want him to think she was actually starting to like it here, stuck in this rustic Catskills camp while all her friends were partying on the beaches of the Hamptons.

      To her surprise, Julian spoke up: “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior, sir.”

      It was gratifying to see her dad’s eyebrows lift in surprise. Hearing the word sir come from the mouth of the Dreadlocked One was clearly unexpected.

      “He will,” Connor Davis said, joining them and passing a look to his brother. The stare he fixed on Julian showed exactly which brother was in charge.

      “I guess it’s all right,” her dad said. He could probably tell Connor would kick Julian’s ass if the kid stepped out of line. “I might come out to check on you later.”

      “Sure, Dad,” Daisy said, forcing brightness into her tone. “That’d be great.”

      She and Julian were both pretty lame at making a fire, but she didn’t really care. They used a box of kitchen matches down to the final one before the pile of twigs finally caught. When the breeze wafted smoke right at her, she happily wedged herself snugly against Julian. He didn’t put the moves on her, but he didn’t move away, either. In fact, simply being near him felt amazing, not like making out with guys from school, under the bleachers at the athletic field, or at the Brownstones at Columbia, where she lied about her age in order to get into a college party.

      Once the flames were dancing nicely in the fire pit, she saw him studying the reflection on the black surface of the lake.

      “I was here once before,” he said. “When I was eight.”

      “Seriously? You came to summer camp?”

      He laughed a little. “It’s not like I had a choice. Connor was a counselor here that year, and he was stuck watching me that summer.”

      She waited for a further explanation, but he stayed silent. “Because …” she prompted.

      His smile faded. “Because there was no one else.”

      The loneliness of his words, the thought of a child having no one but a half brother, struck her in a tender place. She decided not to press him for details, but man. She wanted to know more about this guy. “So what’s your story now?”

      “My mother’s an out-of-work performer—sings, dances, acts,” he said.

      What, did he think she was going to let him off the hook? “That’s your mother’s story. I was wondering about yours.”

      “I got in trouble with the law in May,” he said.

      Now that, she thought, was interesting. Fascinating. Dangerous. She leaned forward, pressing even closer.

      “So what was the incident? Did you steal a car? Deal drugs?” The minute she said the words, she wanted to die. She was an idiot. He’d think she was racial profiling him.

      “I raped a girl,” he informed her. “Maybe I raped three.”

      “Okay,” she said, “I deserved that. And I know you’re lying.” She looped her arms around her drawn-up knees.

      He was quiet for a bit, as if trying to make up his mind whether or not to be ticked off. “Let’s see. They caught me using the high dive at a public pool after dark, skateboarding down a spiral parking lot ramp … stuff like that. A couple of weeks ago, I got caught bungee jumping off a highway bridge with a homemade bungee cord. The judge ordered a change of scenery for me this summer, said I had to do something productive. Trust me, helping renovate a summer camp in the Catskills is the last thing I want to do.”

      The image she had of him did a quick one-eighty. “Why would you go bungee jumping off a bridge?”

      “Why wouldn’t you?” he asked.

      “Oh, let me see. You could break every bone in your body. Wind up paralyzed. Brain dead. Or plain dead.”

      “People wind up dead every day.”

      “Yeah, but jumping off bridges tends to hasten the process.” She shuddered.

      “It was awesome. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I’ve always liked flying.”

      He’d given her the perfect opening. She reached into her pocket and took out an eyeglasses case, flipping it open to reveal a fat, misshapen joint. “Then you’ll like this.”

      With the glowing end of a twig, she lit up and inhaled.

      “This is my kind of flying.” Hoping she’d succeeded in shocking him, she held it out to Julian.

      “I’ll pass,” he said.

      What? Pass? Who passed on a hit from a joint?

      He must have read her mind, because he grinned. “I need to watch myself. See, the judge in California gave my mother a choice—I had to leave town for the summer or do time in juvenile detention. By coming here, I get the bungee-jumping incident wiped off my record.”

      “Fair enough,” she conceded, but kept holding out the joint. “You won’t get caught.”

      “I don’t partake.”

      Ridiculous. What was he, some kind of Boy Scout? His reticence bothered her, made her feel judged by him. “Come on. It’s really good weed. We’re out in the middle of nowhere.”

      “I’m not worried about that,” he said. “Just don’t like getting high.”

      “Whatever.” Feeling slightly ridiculous, she added a twig to the fire, watched it burn. “A girl’s got to find her fun where she can.”

      “So are you having fun?” he asked.

      She squinted at him through the smoke, wondering if she’d ever asked herself that question. “So far, this whole summer has been … weird. It’s supposed to be a lot more fun. I mean, think about it. It’s our last summer as regular kids. By this time next year, we’ll be working and getting ready for college.”

      “College.” Leaning back on his elbows, he gazed up at the stars. “That’s a good one.”

      “Aren’t you planning to go to college?”

      He laughed.

      “What?” She let the joint smolder between her fingers, not caring if it went out.

      “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

      She found that hard to believe. “Teachers and advisers haven’t been hounding you since ninth grade?”

      He laughed again. “At my school, they figure they’re doing a good job if a kid makes it through without dropping out, having a baby or being sent up.”

      She tried to imagine such a world. “Up where?”

      “Sent up means doing time at juvenile hall or worse, prison.”

      “You should change schools.”

      Again, that joyless laughter. “It’s not like I get to choose. I go to my closest public school.”

      She was skeptical. “And your school doesn’t prepare you for college.”

      He shrugged. “Most guys get some crappy job at a car wash and play the lottery and hope for the best.”

      “You don’t