“I think we’re already making tremendous advances in your therapy, Pickle.”

The dazed look on her face lasts only a few seconds before she pushes me back over into my seat and says, “God, you’re so arrogant.”

I laugh and don’t deny it.

She smooths her hair down and pulls away from the stop sign. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye every few seconds for the rest of the drive. Each look is like a shot of adrenaline and by the time she says, “We’re here,” it’s all I can do not to pin her to the seat again.

She slows to a stop behind a truck parked on the side of the road. The street is lined with cars for several hundred yards ahead of us, and a group of people is gathered in a yard a couple of houses down.

“We’re doing something with other people?” I sound like a whining kid because I’d thought I would have her to myself, that I could continue whittling down those walls of hers.

“Come on. We’re running a little late, and we still have to check in.”

I sigh and push open the door. As we get closer, I see tools and paint and hardware, and the picture begins to come together.

I loop an arm around her neck, and though she tenses, she doesn’t push me away. I lower my mouth to her ear and say, “You’re putting me to work.”

“You want to be a better leader for your team. First step to being a leader is learning to put others before yourself. Besides . . . sometimes a little work is good for you.”

“I can think of another way you could have put me to work that’s much more enjoyable.”

She does push me off then, but she’s smiling.

“I’m not talking about you and your . . . You know. This kind of work is positive. We’re helping people.”

“My way is just another kind of helping. And I promise it would be a very positive experience for all involved.”

“Just when I think I’ve got a handle on your ego, it gets even bigger.”

I grin. “I thought we weren’t talking about me and my you-know.”

She shoves at my arm, barely moving me an inch. “Oh my God. You’re terrible.”

“Dylan?” She stops, and the smile drops from her face as she swivels her head to look at the guy who’s stepped out of the group to stand before us on the sidewalk. Her easy demeanor disappears, and I can almost see her lacing herself up again, reining in her smile, her laugh, her posture. I even watch her pull her hands through her hair, as if she’s trying to tame it into something more presentable.

“Uh, Henry. Hi.”

Henry. The name sounds familiar, but I don’t know the guy. His hair is all gelled, and I’m pretty sure he spent more time fixing it than every girl in the crowd. He looks like he’s dressed for a tennis match, rather than construction, and he’s wearing this pretentious smile that already annoys me.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Dylan is calm as she answers, but I can see tension in her face that wasn’t there a few moments ago. “I called Kim this weekend, and asked if she still needed help. I thought you were too busy and decided not to do it.”

He sinks his hands into the pockets of his shorts and jangles what I’m guessing are keys inside. “My schedule freed up unexpectedly.”

It hits me then who this is. The ex. And damn it, I knew this would be the kind of guy she dated.

The kind of guys that are like a f**king magnet for my fists.

“Who’s this?”

“Silas.” I hold out my hand and when we shake, I might squeeze a little harder than necessary. He gives a satisfying flinch, and Dylan hooks her arm around my elbow and starts pulling me away.

“Come on. We need to check in.”

“Nice to meet you, Henry.” I throw him a grim smile and let her pull me away.

When we’re halfway across the yard, she whispers, “You can be such an ass, you know that?”

“Me? I spoke to that guy for ten seconds, and I already know he’s a giant douche. You dated that for four years?”

“He’s nice.”

I scoff. “First, I doubt that. Dude has spoiled dickwad practically written across his forehead.”

“Silas, we’re not talking about this now.”

She steps away from me and up to a folding table where a teenager sits with a clipboard.

“Dylan Brenner,” she says. “And a guest.”

The kid pops her gum and looks over at me. “He’ll need to fill out a release form.”

She taps a stack of papers and holds out a pen. Dylan gives me an expectant look, and I hold back my groan. I fill out the damn form and pass it to the girl.

She blows a bubble, pops it, and then says, “Join the group. Greg will assign you your tasks.”

That out of the way, I start in again, “So . . . he’s nice. That’s really the best you’ve got? You give him four years of your life because he says ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ and you’re scared just to date me?”

“Silas . . .”

“Seriously. Help me understand. Is it because he’s rich?”

“Excuse me?” There’s a vague warning ring in the back of my mind that I should shut my trap, but I can’t let this go. I need someone to explain to me why guys like her ex get anything and everything they want just because they’re labeled “good.” What the f**k does that even mean?

“It’s a valid question,” I say.

“No, it’s not because he’s rich,” she snaps. “It’s because he doesn’t punch people who make him angry. He doesn’t drink or do drugs to deal with his problems. He cared about me. He didn’t just want to have sex with me for a little while.”

There are razor blades in my lungs, and when I suck in a breath, it tastes like fire. And I want it out, want to spit it back at her.

“If that’s all I am, why bring me here? Why do you give a f**k at all?”

Her perfect lips hang open like she’s shocked herself, and I can see something like regret blooming over her cheeks. I want to hate her. I want to storm off and walk the f**k home. I want to pull her to me, pry her lips open with mine, and take whatever that mouth will offer even if it’s only insults and sour words.

The thing is . . . she’s right. I know that’s who I am. She’s just the first person besides me to say it out loud. She starts to reply, but a voice from the front of the crowd calls everyone to attention. A middle-aged guy stands on a chair with a megaphone to amplify his voice.