He stiffens when she flings herself at him, wrapping her arms around him. He wasn’t expecting a hug, and I giggle at the look on his face. When she pulls away, I wouldn’t quite say he’s blushing, but he looks like he’s on the verge of it. “Thank you,” she insists, one more time. With a nod, he leaves her and heads back over to me. After the tank is full, we climb back in the car and continue our trip to Jeff and Wendy’s.

“That was . . . that was really nice, Connor,” I tell him. “You’re a good guy.”

“No, I’m not. Make no mistake about that. I’m just a very lucky guy.”

Although I want to, I don’t ask him what he means. I’ve learned in life, sometimes the hardest forgiveness to earn is forgiveness from ourselves. Clearly he thinks he’s undeserving, and that luck just fell upon him. And maybe it did. Or maybe it wasn’t good luck. I don’t know why he killed a man; frankly, I’m not sure I want to know. Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever happened, right or wrong, good luck or bad, there’s no doubt there is more to Connor Stevens than meets the eye.

And I find it very intriguing.

On the way home we stop by Jeff and Wendy’s so I can give him cash to buy the materials he’ll need for my house. Jeff starts on my house projects Monday after next, so for now, Connor has to come down and use my bathroom. Which is no big deal for me. I just feel bad he has to go through the trouble. In addition to the plumbing, Jeff is going to paint my living room and put up crown molding.

“This is a nice house,” Connor notes as we climb the steps of the front stoop. Jeff and Wendy live in a beautiful colonial with a wide front porch. Even with five kids, Jeff manages to take excellent care of the outside.

“Jeff’s a great handyman,” I note as I open the front door. I never knock. Neither does Wendy when she comes to my house.

“Now the inside is a different story,” I whisper to Connor as I move aside allowing him to step in. There’s a staircase to the left strewn with clothes, toys, and books. The bench to our right has approximately fifty pairs of shoes on and under it and the wall above it with several jackets, coats, and book bags. I shut the door behind Connor as he takes quick inventory of the place.

“Wendy!” I shout as I make my way down the hall toward the kitchen in the back, Connor following close behind me.

“Kitchen,” Wendy yells back.

Entering the kitchen, we find Wendy plating grilled cheese sandwiches on paper plates, and Grayson on the floor with tons of matchbox cars, lining them up.

“Hey, guys,” Wendy chirps. “Want a grilled cheese?” Although she smiles at us, I can’t help but notice it doesn’t quite seem authentic. I give her a concerned look, but she just shakes her head, letting me know she doesn’t want to talk about it.

“No, thank you,” Connor says, and I shake my head no.

“Jeff ran out to get some milk and butter.”

“Well, I’ll just leave the cash with you. We have to get home.” I’m speaking to Wendy, but my gaze won’t leave Grayson, the youngest Tuffman child, who has lined up matchbox cars along the length of the kitchen.

“You have a lovely home,” Connor notes, and he and Wendy start chatting as I continue to watch Grayson. He’s singing. It’s the opening song to the cartoon show Team Umizoomi. As soon as he finishes, he starts all over again, singing the same song.

“Grayson,” I call. But he doesn’t respond or give any indication that he even hears me.

“Grayson bug,” I say, lovingly, hoping the change in my tone will catch his attention. But he still doesn’t turn. He just keeps lining his cars up and singing the same song, seemingly oblivious to me.

My brows furrow just before Wendy snaps, “Grayson! Answer Demi!” He doesn’t acknowledge Wendy.

Wendy huffs, clearly aggravated. “I think we need to get his hearing checked. It’s like he doesn’t even hear me most of the time.”

When I look up, Connor is watching me, a questioning look on his face. Apparently I’m not doing a very good job hiding my thoughts.

“Later,” I mouth. He nods and I put the envelope of cash on the counter. “Here’s the money and I added a deposit.”

Wendy’s eyes fall to the plates in front of her. I was hoping I had been subtle. I know they need the money, and she’s embarrassed that I know. If Connor weren’t here, I would press her and tell her to stop feeling ashamed, but since he is, I move on. “Well, we have to go. Meet me tomorrow for dinner? My treat?” I can tell something I off with her. Maybe I can figure out what’s going on over dinner.

Wendy’s eyes light up. “Yes, please,” she groans.

Connor and I chuckle just as her three older kids come barreling in the kitchen. Mary-Anne comes to an abrupt halt when she catches sight of Connor and J.J plows into her, knocking her to her knees.

“You jerk!” she yells at him.

“Mary-Anne,” Wendy scolds.

“Stop being such a baby,” J.J. grunts as he stands.

McKenzie, the second oldest, rolls her eyes, and takes a seat at the kitchen table. She looks just like Wendy at her age, all blonde hair, and rocking body. But she’s fifteen and McKenzie has reached those fun teenage years where everyone and everything is a nuisance. Oh, and she has it all figured out.

“Yay,” J.J. chirps. “Grilled cheese.”

“Grilled cheese again?” McKenzie moans.

“Not tonight, Kenz. Spare me your whining for one night,” Wendy begs as she grabs a pot from the stove and starts scooping green beans on the plates.

“Who are you?” Mary-Anne asks, and I look down to see her staring at Connor.

He bends to one knee, so he’s at her height and reaches out a hand, “I’m Connor Stevens.”

She looks at his hand for a brief moment before slipping her tiny one in his. “Mary-Anne Louise Tuffman,” she replies, giving Connor her full name.

He grins, and I’m oddly enraptured as I watch him talk with Mary-Anne. There’s easiness about him and mirth in his eyes. He’s good with kids.

“Nice to meet you,” he says.

Suddenly, J.J. lifts the back of Connor’s shirt before anyone knows what he’s doing and asks, “Who colored these pictures all over you?

“They’re tattoos you idiot,” McKenzie snips.

“Enough McKenzie,” Wendy growls in frustration.

Connor stands, tugging his shirt back down and informs J.J., “A bunch of different people colored them.”

“Cool,” J.J. says, giving him a toothless grin, before moving past his mother at the counter, fixated on his feast of grilled cheese. McKenzie groans, clearly wanting attention, and against my better judgment, I fold and give it to her.

“Hey, McKenzie,” I wave. “What’s wrong?”

“My cell got cut off. That’s what’s wrong,” she complains as she crosses her arms and pouts.

“Well, it would be lovely to have a phone that you can talk on but can’t charge because we couldn’t afford to pay the power bill because we paid for said phone!” Wendy snaps.

“I hate this house! I hate being poor,” McKenzie shouts as she bolts out of her seat and flies past us to leave. But Wendy’s oldest son, Mark, is in the doorway and seeing she’s super pissed, and only being dutiful, fulfilling his role as her older brother, decides now’s the best time to mess with her. He holds both hands on the doorframe as McKenzie tries to push past him. When she starts hitting him, he laughs. Mark is sixteen and almost as big as Jeff. He can take a few girly hits which up until this point, that’s all McKenzie has doled out.

“What’s the matter Kenz?” Mark teases pouting his lip mockingly. “Got your period?”

McKenzie stops hitting him, and her eyes go wide with rage. He just brought up her period in front a stranger—Connor—there will definitely be hell to pay. He’s busy laughing when her knee pops up giving him a hard hit to the balls. He folds to the floor and yells out in pain as she steps over him and leaves the room.