I poured a glass of milk and unwrapped a strawberry Pop-Tart, but then I saw his truck creeping up the drive. In a peculiar way, I wanted to see him. I was mortified when I thought about the electric current that shot through me when we were swimming, but the way his eyes twinkled as he snared that rattlesnake made me want to sit and talk to him, get to know him better, discover what made him tick. Ridiculous. It took me a minute to open the front door—the lock had been acting up lately—and when I finally got it open, he stood at the bottom of the steps with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Brought you something.” He brought me a gift? He stepped to his truck and opened the door. “Come on, boy.” Nothing happened, so I stuffed the last of my toaster pastry into my mouth and followed him. I peeked into the cab and saw the Picketts’ old blue heeler lying on the seat with his head on his paws.
