He shook his head. “Life isn’t fair. Even for a kid from Highland Park who seems to have it all but doesn’t.”

My heart dipped at the melancholy I heard in his voice, but I pushed it aside when the Mercedes pulled into a spot just across from us. “You know that car?”

He squinted at the vehicle. “No. Why?”

“They were behind us most of the way here. Probably nothing,” I murmured.

We got out of the car, and he said, “You go on in. I’ll go see who they are.”

“Only if you want to be shot,” I said, shrugging like I didn’t care. Playing it cool, having a panic attack inside.

“Shot?” he stiffened, peering at the car. It sat idling, the windows blacked out with tint. Whoever was in there, they wanted to remain anonymous. Was it Barinsky’s men?

“Don’t stare at them, Cuba.” Please. I turned toward the porch.

“Do you know who’s in the car?” he asked, his head going back and forth between me and the vehicle.

Maybe. “It’s a bad neighborhood. Maybe a drug dealer or a pimp. We don’t bother them, they don’t bother us. It’s a rule.”

He stepped out on to the street. “Fuck rules. You’re acting weird, so I’m going over there.”

“No need to be a bad-ass,” I snapped and without thinking grabbed his bicep. He came to an abrupt halt, and I should have let his arm go, but I just couldn’t. My fingers remained, lingering.

Because he felt hard and muscled—and divine.

No. I snapped my hand back and tucked it inside my skirt pocket.

I cleared my throat. “Look, there’s a liquor store on the corner and a naughty book store across the street. Cars park here frequently. It’s nothing. Please, let’s go inside. It’s been a long day, and I just want a cup of tea.”

And I wanted us off the streets.

He eyed me carefully for a moment but seemed to believe me.

“Tea, huh?” he said, following me up the steps from the street and onto the cracked sidewalk.

“Yep, Heather-Lynn makes the best tea. And Sarah needs the routine, so we do the same thing every afternoon…” I tapered off, telling too much. He didn’t want to know about my problems, and I didn’t want his pity.

“Who’s Heather-Lynn?” he asked.

“A friend,” I said, seeing Heather-Lynn’s face at the window. She ate this stuff up, so I stopped on the sidewalk and prepared for a grand entrance. And sure enough, the front door banged loudly as she barged out the double front door, her age softened by the glow of the porch light. She barreled down the step, smoking a cigarette, decked out in a pink, quilted housecoat and kitten heels. Thank goodness the negligee from this morning was nowhere in sight.

She carried her dog in her arms. I assumed Sarah was still sleeping, because most days she’d come out to greet me too.

When I looked over at Cuba to gauge his reaction, he already had a slow-rising grin on his face, and I shook my head. Did his affinity with females extend to all age groups?

“That is Heather-Lynn. She likes to salsa, was in a movie once, and loves to flirt.” My face softened. “She’s been Sarah’s friend—and mine—for years. The dog’s name is Ricky, also her ex-husband’s name.” He’d left her years ago for a cashier girl at Target.

Her heels slapped against the cracked concrete. “Dovey Katerina Beckham…” She halted and squinted, a mist of cigarette smoke following her. Completely pretending she hadn’t seen Cuba with me from the house. She ran her eyes over him, lingering longer than was appropriate on his crotch.

“Hello, Heather-Lynn,” Cuba murmured, charm oozing off of him.

“Why who are you?” she drawled in her slow Tennessee accent. I could listen to it all day, mostly because her voice brought up visions of fried chicken and potato salad.

“Are you Dovey’s new man?” she asked him.

“No,” I answered quickly, not missing that Cuba had gone rigid. Did the thought of us as a couple disturb him? “This is Cuba, a student from BA,” I said.

She looked surprised—yeah, she knew the whole story—but covered it up with a smile. “Odd name, I must say. It’s a country and not a good one. But you’re handsome enough, I suppose. Great body.” She cocked her hip, striking a pose. “Yeah, you’ll do.”

I rolled my eyes. “He’s forty years younger than you. Stick with the mailman.”

She laughed and ushered us both up to the porch and through the entrance. I didn’t relax until we were all in and the deadbolts were in place.

Cuba gazed around the foyer, his eyes stopping on a collection of black and white photos of me at different dance recitals. He moved toward them as I pulled Heather-Lynn to the side.

“Sarah asleep?” I asked her.

She nodded and then cut her eyes at Cuba. “What’s going on with you and the heartbreaker? He is the one, right?”

I sighed. “Yeah. My car broke down, so he gave me a ride home. And there’s a weird car on the street, so I asked him in.” But, at this point I didn’t care about Cuba. I wanted to know more about what had happened with those goons. “Anymore visits today?”

“No. We’re fine.” She gave me a pat. “Now, go chat with him while I make the tea.”

Go chat with him? That just sounded odd.

But it did seem as if we’d crossed a barrier in the car. Just a little.

She left, and I made my way over to him.

He turned and smiled at me and one of his dimples flashed. Whoa. I stopped in my tracks, sucking in air. That smile, that face…I hadn’t seen it in over a year.

“You look like a Degas painting in these pictures,” he mused.

He probably owned a few Degas’s.

“What do you mean?”

He traced his finger over a picture of me in a shimmery ball et tutu. “Your body is pure art, all straight lines and…I don’t know…perfect curves? Does that even make sense?” He shrugged in a self-deprecating way. “I don’t know how to describe it with the right ballet terms, but I like watching you dance. Maybe because I can tell you love it.”

Then why have you ignored me?

He sighed, dropping his hands. “You were right before, you know. Back at the parking lot. I have lost touch with my goals, but you never have.”