His Rebel Heart. Amber Williams Leigh

the sink and salvaged what she could of the wax. One of the other neighbors would surely be as offended as she was. They’d go over, put an end to it...

      But it was early afternoon. Most of the neighbors were at the office. The kids were in school.

      She was on her own.

      Cursing, she went back to making her candles. As the hour stretched into another and the sounds of Led Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks” followed closely on the heels of Van Halen’s “Eruption,” her movements became jerky. She broke two mason jars, spilled more wax on the floor, cursed up a storm...

      Adrian figured he was baiting her. She’d avoided coming into contact with him since his visit to Flora days ago—when he’d promised to prove his worth as a man, a father. This had to be his way of getting her over there, face-to-face so they could hash it out again....

      “Moron,” she muttered, mopping up another mess. If this was his way of showing her he was a changed man, he was failing miserably. Just as her gardenia mixture failed... She thought seriously about murdering him.

      Another half hour. Zeppelin was replaced by Sublime, Guns N’ Roses and finally Red Hot Chili Peppers. She scowled as she affixed her labels to the fronts of the finished mason jars. Yep. He knew all he had to do was play a little Chili Peppers for her to remember...

      It took her back instantly to that night she’d driven him home. Or, rather, when she drove him to the harbor where his father’s boat was moored. He’d invited her aboard for a drink. There had been something different about him that night. All that day, in fact. Where friendship had smoothed the rough edges between them with ease, and even jokes and laughter, there had been something amiss that night, a shift back to the haunted shell she’d found in the barn nearly a week before. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to just leave him, so she followed him onto the deck of the Free Bird, the daysailer that looked as if it had seen better days. There was a tattered pirate flag flying off the stern and more than a little rust to be seen, but all in all, she was a clean boat, one James took pride in. She could see it in the way he ran his hand over the mast and helm.

      She’d followed him belowdecks where he admitted to sleeping most nights. He’d told her how he couldn’t bring himself to go home—to his mother, his stepfather, the disappointment and feelings of hopelessness they generally cast in his direction. She’d taken his hand because she understood, at least to some degree. It didn’t take a genius to see that her mother felt the same way about her—and she told him as much. His hand had squeezed hers a moment or two before he released it and got up to grab them both a beer.