“Hey,” she says, and I turn back. She jerks her cute little chin in my direction. “What’s your name?”

“Ash,” I tell her, reaching into my pockets for my pack of smokes. “Ash Winthrope.” I need something to do with my hands. But as I pull one out and stick it in my mouth, she’s leaning out her car window, reaching a hand out to me to shake. “I’m Star,” she says, and I can’t help the startled laugh before it escapes.

“Of course you are,” I say, and watch as her brow furrows adorably. I shake my head, a rush of heat traveling up my neck. “I mean . . . I don’t know what I meant,” I say, going for honesty when quick-thinking fails me once again. Story of my life. I reach out and shake her hand. It’s warm and smooth and kind of tiny in mine, but it’s stronger than I thought it would be. “I guess I meant it suits you,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you, Star.”

The handshake goes on a little too long to be comfortable, and we both kind of laugh and drop our hands at once as soon as it gets a little too awkward. I’m left standing by her driver’s-side door, shifting my weight from foot to foot, trying to figure out an escape route. Whatever game I once had has been completely erased in the past five years. Now I’m a spaz.

“Well,” I say. “I guess I’ll see you around, Star.” And then I start making for my car again.

“Hey, Ash,” she calls out, and I stifle a groan. I’m trying to make a fucking graceful exit here. Can’t this girl see that?

“Look,” she says, “I get this is kinda awkward, but I heard you talking to the waitress inside.” She nods toward the diner. My most recent failure. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Yeah,” I say, and reach into my pocket for my lighter. I light my cigarette and take a drag, and try to resist the urge to fiddle with the lighter. Playing with a flame in a public place probably isn’t going to endear me to the hot chick who clearly knows enough of my history to be wary of me. No wonder she’d looked so freaked out when I knocked on her window. Must have scared the life out of her. Shit.

“Listen, your history is your business. Not mine. I’m just wondering if you’d be willing to help me out with something.”

Ah, shit. She’s one of those girls. The ones that want to walk on the wild side without ever getting their own hands dirty. Crap.

“I’m not into that shit anymore,” I tell her. “I’m clean now. Five years.”

Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open a little. A beat passes, and I wonder if I should just sprint to my car. It couldn’t be any more uncomfortable than what I’m dealing with right now. I glance over my shoulder and . . . yep. The blonde waitress I asked about a job is watching us from the front window of the diner. She’s probably getting ready to call the cops if I hang around Star much longer. I need to get out of here.

“That’s not what I meant!” Star yells, and I shuffle to a stop before I even realize I’ve moved. I’m halfway to my car. Well, it looks like the old fight-or-flight instincts are still intact. That’s something. “Look,” she says. “My mother just died and I’m cleaning out her house. But I can’t do it by myself. I need help, and I can’t afford to hire professionals. I can’t pay much, but I just thought . . . ”

I look back at her, and I’m surprised to see that she looks just as freaked out as I feel. But for once, her nerves don’t seem to be caused by me. Something else is bothering the crap out of her, and I kind of want to throw my arms up in victory that it isn’t me. I’m a bastard.

“Not to sound ungrateful . . . ” I say, turning and taking a step back toward her car. I take another drag from my cigarette. I’m going to have to start rationing the damn things soon. Maybe quit altogether. Mom would like that, if she bothered to give a shit. She’d been after me to quit since I was a teenager. “But why me?”

Star’s teeth worry at her lower lip, which only makes it look plumper and fuck. Not the time. Then she sighed and let her head flop back against the headrest. “My mother was a hoarder,” she says, her voice so quiet I can barely hear her over the road noise and the jangling of the bells over the diner door as an old man and his grandson exit. The old man shoots me a bitter look when they walk by, and he keeps the kid on the other side of him, shielding him with his body. Yeah, like I’m going to attack a kid and an old man. In broad daylight. Jesus, people in this town are even more fucked up than they were five years ago.

Then Star’s words niggle at something in the back of my mind. “A hoarder,” I say. “Like those crazy people on that sho—”

“Yes,” she snaps before I can get into all the weird crap I’m imagining, like layers upon layers of dead animals crushed under broken lamps and half-full bags of cat food. Then she sighs again, and lets go of the steering wheel she’d been holding in a death grip to press the heels of her hands into her eyes. When her hands drop back down, I can see that this is what’s bothering her. And it’s bothering her enough to ask me for help, a guy she knows just got out of prison.

Fuck. And I thought I had problems.

I’m still weighing it in my mind—the desire to eat and maybe one day having an actual roof over my head versus digging through a garbage dump—but my mouth is already moving and words are escaping without my permission. “How much?”

“Like I said, I can’t pay much,” she says. “Not even minimum wage. I could manage maybe five–six hundred a month.”

A month? How long is this gonna take? How big of a mess can one person create? I’m still thinking about it, rolling the idea over and over in my head when she turns around in her seat and starts digging in the purse on the passenger seat. I lean forward, arm braced against the car, curious. Then she’s turning back and shoving a crumpled piece of paper through the open window. I grab it. “That’s my number,” she says. “You can think about it if you want, but I’m going to be getting started right away. I need to get this done by the end of the summer, and I’d really appreciate the help. That is, if you’re willing.”

I stare down at the phone number scrawled across the slip of paper, at the little scribble underneath that could only be an address, and then I look up at her. Her eyes are all big and brown and earnest as fuck. What the hell is this girl thinking?

“You do know about me, don’t you?” I ask, and try to pass her the piece of paper back through the car window. “Like, you’re not under any delusions or anything, right? I just got out of prison. Aren’t you worried I’ll get in there and start stealing shit?”

Star stares at me for a moment, completely still. Then she throws her head back and laughs, and goddamn if it isn’t the hottest fucking thing I’ve seen in five years. She just shoves the phone number back at me. “If you steal anything, I’ll be eternally fucking grateful, you have no idea” she says, and my gut jerks again at the sound of her cursing at me. She’s already a gorgeous chick with kick-ass tattoos and the cutest fucking smile I’ve seen in years. How she just got hotter, I have no idea. “Just keep the number, okay?” she asks. “And give me a call when you make up your mind.”

“What if I can’t help you out?” I ask.

She just shakes her head and smiles at me. “Either way,” she says. “Just let me know.” Then she reaches out and wraps her right arm around the back of the passenger seat to watch behind her, and pulls out of the parking spot.

She’s down the road before I can think of anything to say to that. I take another puff of my smoke and stare down at the phone number in my hand. It’s a little crumpled, so I grip the cigarette between my lips and use both hands to smooth out the paper against the leg of my jeans. I fold it up and stick it in my pocket, and look up to see the blonde waitress still watching me through the window. I give her a smirk and a little wave—one I’m dying to turn into a one-finger salute, but somehow manage to restrain myself—and head back to my car.