But no, she’d climbed in the steaming hot shower alone and stayed that way. She took her time, too, not knowing when she’d get another chance to spend more than five minutes in a shower before someone started screaming at her.

And later, when she’d emerged with pinned up damp hair and yoga sweats, Tyler had been killing the lights in the apartment.

“Stay up and watch TV if you want,” he’d said. “I’m going to bed. I’ve got an eight a.m. class.” Then he’d taken a quick look in the second bedroom and said, “Do you want an extra blanket?”

Pretty clear where he’d expected her to sleep.

Thinking about it now, she wondered if she’d messed something up.

You going to judge me for something Seth did?

She had no idea how to read him. He’d said terrible things to her in Nick’s driveway—though he’d talked his way out of those. But then that night behind the 7-Eleven, when he’d burned her . . . was that a cruel side of Tyler, the way boys would yank the wings off flies, or was that a panicked side trying to figure out what dangers were affecting the Elementals in town, using the only leverage he could find?

And here she was, sleeping in his spare room. After he’d helped her get her things and protected her from an addict and a dealer. That had to count for something.

No, a lot. That had to count for a lot.

The guitar music kept up, and she listened, thinking of Nick, of the night he’d told her his family secret, the way the air had carried her.

She thought of how much he hated Tyler, and wished she knew how to reconcile all these facets of the same guy.

The guitar music changed, becoming something more lively.

Still muffled, still at a distance, but enough that she could pick out the rhythm and melody. Was someone outside? But they were on the third floor.

She swung her legs onto the velvet softness of the carpeting, padding into the doorway. Definitely outside.

She peeked through Tyler’s doorway, expecting to either find him asleep, or sitting up in bed, as confused about the music as she was.

His bed was empty.

The light over the sink was on, casting a soft glow across half the apartment. Quinn approached the glass door that led to the porch, seeing that someone was indeed out there, sprawled on one of the porch chairs, a guitar in his lap.

Tyler.

Quinn slid the glass door open. “What happened to your eight o’clock class?”

“Nothing. I couldn’t sleep.” He was good enough that he didn’t lose the rhythm or the melody. “Did I wake you?”

“You’re probably waking half the building.”

“Doubt it.” She opened her mouth to fire back, but he nodded at the opposite chair. “Want to join me?”

Like she had anything better to do. She dragged the door closed behind her and eased into the vinyl chair. It was way too cold for a tank top and stretch pants, but she was used to being underdressed for the weather. She caught a whiff of smoke in the air, then saw the lit cigarette perched on an ashtray on the table beside him. A beer sat there with it.

Definitely way too old for her. She didn’t give a crap.

“You’re very good,” she said quietly.

“Thanks,” he said equably.

“Do you sing, too?”

She’d been kidding, but he nodded. He didn’t demonstrate, however.

“I don’t get a show?” she mocked, thinking of his comments when she was dancing in the woods.

He pressed a hand against the strings, stopping the music abruptly. “Do you want one?”

Was his voice suggestive? She couldn’t tell.

“Sure.” A breeze slid through the railing and she shivered, running her hands up and down her arms.

He picked up his beer. “Cold?”

“No, it’s a tic.”

He laughed softly, then moved the guitar off his lap. He wasn’t quite holding his arms open for a hug, but the invitation was there. He clinched it when he said, “Want to sit with me?”

Quinn studied him in the near darkness for a long moment.

She remembered their conversation about the lion earlier. Right now she felt like she was climbing into a lion’s cage. Or rather, his lap.

Another gust of wind gave her all the urging she needed. She eased into Tyler, finding him warm and solid. He smelled like cigarettes and beer and something warmer, more inviting, like cinnamon or vanilla or both. His arms came around her, dragging the guitar into her lap. He shifted, moving her slightly. It put her face almost against his neck, his breath against her hair-line.

She suddenly wasn’t cold at all.

“I don’t think there’s room in this chair for the three of us,”

she said softly.

“Please,” he scoffed. “As tiny as you are? Plenty of room.”

Tiny. Tiny! Quinn almost fell off his lap. Maybe he couldn’t feel her crushing his femurs.

But then he started to play, his fingers spilling across the strings, picking out a quick-yet-slow rhythm. His arms were warm and strong, caging her in his lap, and Quinn closed her eyes.

When he began to sing, it took her by surprise. His voice was low, rough and raspy, carrying a tune effortlessly. She didn’t know the song, but it felt vaguely country, with lyrics about pretty girls and apple trees. Her cynical mind wanted to mock it, to mock him, because he was being gentle and kind and it threw her off balance more effectively than when he’d physically dragged her out of her apartment building.