grinned. “Darkness never hurt anybody and chances are the little beasties that live down here are more afraid of you than you are of them.”
She heard something scurry in the corner and cringed. “That’s up for debate.”
“You’re such a girl,” he teased.
That comment made her laugh as she backed up the stairs. “And proud that I can’t throw a baseball or change a tire.”
When he reached the top he closed the cellar door. “What if you had to go down there and change a fuse?”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t deal with the things in the basement. I would if I had to. But the less monsters in my life the better.”
He studied her, his gaze razor sharp. “Are there monsters in your life?”
Her heartbeat quickened. Despite the casual tone, his question hit a nerve. Since her parents had died ten years ago, all she’d had in her life were monsters. “I suppose we all have monsters.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
He moved back toward the front of the house, to the room under construction. She trailed behind him. He turned the light switch, and when he confirmed the juice was not flowing, he pulled out a pair of wire cutters. “So who are your monsters, Kristen?”
Fear scraped her nerves. She folded her arms over her chest, feigning a bravery she didn’t have. “My father always taught me never to talk about them. Talking stirs fear and fear feeds the monsters.”
He clipped a white wire in tow. “So where is your mother?”
Questions normally put her on the defensive. But for some reason, with Dane she wasn’t afraid to answer. “My mother and father died in a car accident.”
“I’m sorry.” He kept his gaze on his work but she sensed he was keenly aware of her. “When did they die?”
The old pain of her parents’ death had lessened from agony to a dull throb, but it was always present. “Ten years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that. How old were you?”
Kristen hugged her arms around her chest. “I was fifteen.”
She’d barely spoken about her mother or father in years. Antonio had forbidden her to. He’d never forgiven his father for marrying Kristen’s Anglo mother after his own mother’s death. Antonio’s mother, from what he’d said, had been a quiet superstitious woman who was content to dote on her son. Kristen’s mother had been a tall, blond actress who liked to spend money and throw lavish parties. Antonio had resented his father and his second wife. He’d been thirty when they’d died in the car crash, and had taken over his father’s fortune and brought Kristen to live with him.
Dane glanced over his shoulder at her. “That’s rough.”
“It was a bad time for me.” Her voice shook only a little when she spoke.
“So where’d you go?”
She didn’t even like thinking about the years spent living in her brother’s house, let alone talking about them. “I went into foster care.” She’d used the lie often this last year. The fewer people who knew the truth about her the better.
“Was foster care rough?”
“Not really,” she lied. “The people who took me in were kind and loving. They kept me until I turned eighteen.”
His jaw tightened then released. “You keep up with them?”
“Sure. I write whenever I get the chance.”
Dane clipped another end of the white thick wire and sealed off the end. “Looks like we have more in common than I realized.”
“How’s that?”
“I grew up in foster care.”
“You did?” What she knew about foster care came from television shows and books. She needed to choose her words carefully. “Did your parents die?”
“Naw. They’re still out there somewhere alive and well. They just couldn’t tackle the work it took to raise a kid. My old man couldn’t hold down a job and my mother drank.”
“I’m sorry.” At least she’d known her parents had loved her. “Did you have a brother or sister?”
With a violent yank, he pulled the white wire though the holes it had been threaded
She heard something scurry in the corner and cringed. “That’s up for debate.”
“You’re such a girl,” he teased.
That comment made her laugh as she backed up the stairs. “And proud that I can’t throw a baseball or change a tire.”
When he reached the top he closed the cellar door. “What if you had to go down there and change a fuse?”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t deal with the things in the basement. I would if I had to. But the less monsters in my life the better.”
He studied her, his gaze razor sharp. “Are there monsters in your life?”
Her heartbeat quickened. Despite the casual tone, his question hit a nerve. Since her parents had died ten years ago, all she’d had in her life were monsters. “I suppose we all have monsters.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
He moved back toward the front of the house, to the room under construction. She trailed behind him. He turned the light switch, and when he confirmed the juice was not flowing, he pulled out a pair of wire cutters. “So who are your monsters, Kristen?”
Fear scraped her nerves. She folded her arms over her chest, feigning a bravery she didn’t have. “My father always taught me never to talk about them. Talking stirs fear and fear feeds the monsters.”
He clipped a white wire in tow. “So where is your mother?”
Questions normally put her on the defensive. But for some reason, with Dane she wasn’t afraid to answer. “My mother and father died in a car accident.”
“I’m sorry.” He kept his gaze on his work but she sensed he was keenly aware of her. “When did they die?”
The old pain of her parents’ death had lessened from agony to a dull throb, but it was always present. “Ten years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that. How old were you?”
Kristen hugged her arms around her chest. “I was fifteen.”
She’d barely spoken about her mother or father in years. Antonio had forbidden her to. He’d never forgiven his father for marrying Kristen’s Anglo mother after his own mother’s death. Antonio’s mother, from what he’d said, had been a quiet superstitious woman who was content to dote on her son. Kristen’s mother had been a tall, blond actress who liked to spend money and throw lavish parties. Antonio had resented his father and his second wife. He’d been thirty when they’d died in the car crash, and had taken over his father’s fortune and brought Kristen to live with him.
Dane glanced over his shoulder at her. “That’s rough.”
“It was a bad time for me.” Her voice shook only a little when she spoke.
“So where’d you go?”
She didn’t even like thinking about the years spent living in her brother’s house, let alone talking about them. “I went into foster care.” She’d used the lie often this last year. The fewer people who knew the truth about her the better.
“Was foster care rough?”
“Not really,” she lied. “The people who took me in were kind and loving. They kept me until I turned eighteen.”
His jaw tightened then released. “You keep up with them?”
“Sure. I write whenever I get the chance.”
Dane clipped another end of the white thick wire and sealed off the end. “Looks like we have more in common than I realized.”
“How’s that?”
“I grew up in foster care.”
“You did?” What she knew about foster care came from television shows and books. She needed to choose her words carefully. “Did your parents die?”
“Naw. They’re still out there somewhere alive and well. They just couldn’t tackle the work it took to raise a kid. My old man couldn’t hold down a job and my mother drank.”
“I’m sorry.” At least she’d known her parents had loved her. “Did you have a brother or sister?”
With a violent yank, he pulled the white wire though the holes it had been threaded
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