Exposed (Let Me Love You #3)

Prologue

DEACON

9 YEARS OLD

1992

DREAMS

F resh out of the shower from my hockey practice, I shove open the back door.

The screen door screeches in protest, and my mom calls out, “Goodness, querido , don’t break the door. You’re too strong for your own good.”

My mom is Portuguese and calls my siblings and I “darling” in her native language.

“Sorry,” I shout back without slowing down.

Afternoons in my backyard are the perfect way to come down from my intense, two-hour time on the ice with my hockey team.

Armed with my pencil and sketch pad, I walk to my favorite climbing tree that straddles our backyard and the yard behind ours. I wish I could be on the ice 24/7, but when I can’t skate, sketching makes me happy.

A rustling sound behind our back fence catches my attention. I walk closer and hear a girl humming. She must be the new neighbor that moved into the house behind ours last week.

Our wooden fence is too tall to see over, so I tuck my pencil behind my ear and my sketch pad under my arm. Then, I climb our tree and see her. A girl with her brown hair in a ponytail is sitting in the grass reading a book. She’s wearing a tank and shorts, absentmindedly playing with the strap of her top.

I place my pencil and pad on the wooden shelf that my big brother Shane helped me nail in between two branches.

“Hey,” I call.

She looks up and squints at me in the patch of sunlight that shines through the leafy branches. Her nose scrunches up as she shades her eyes to find me. She’s cute.

“Hey,” she replies.

“What are you humming?” I ask, leaning on a branch.

“Elvis. My mom likes him.” She closes her book and sets it down. “That's an awesome tree for climbing.”

“Want to come up?” I ask.

“I can’t reach up there. ”

“Sure you can.” I climb lower in the tree. “Grab my hand.”

I anchor myself with one arm around a sturdy branch, then lean down and reach my other hand out to her. She grabs it and walks her feet up the fence as I pull.

I’ve never held a girl’s hand before, and it’s not sweaty and gross like I thought it’d be. I like it. Reluctantly, I let go of her hand so she can hold on to the branches instead.

Our faces are only inches apart now, and her eyes meet mine. She has the clearest, brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

I want to draw her face in my sketch pad and use the Pacific Blue crayon for her eyes. It’s a special color, one that only comes with the 64-count crayon box.

She smells like cherries, like the chapstick my mom gives me when my lips are chapped from being on the ice too long. It’s comforting.

“You’re strong,” she comments as she adjusts herself in the tree.

I shrug my shoulders in response. My coach calls me a powerhouse, and I work out hard with my team.

She’s petite, so it was easy to lift her. She looks like she could be my age.

“Are you new here?” I ask, my eyes trained on her beautiful blues.

“Yep, my parents and I moved in last week.”

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Turned 13 last month.”

Shoot. She’s not my age.

“You?” She asks .

“Nine.” I’m nine and a half, but if I say that, I’ll sound like a baby. I look down, wishing I was the same age as her.

“You’re big for a nine-year-old.” Her eyes flit down my long body and back up.

“You’re small for a 13-year-old,” I volley back.

“Touché.”

“And I get my height from my grandpa.” He’s taller than my mom and dad, and even though my older brother Shane is three years older than me, I’m almost the same size as him.

“That’s cool. What’s your name?” She tucks a loose piece of her dark hair behind her ear.

“Deacon, but everyone calls me D. Yours?”

“Shyla, but you can call me Shy. All of my friends do.”

She wants to be my friend. Score .

“Okay,” I nod. I’ve got a better name for her. “Sky.”

“No, Shy.” Her brows pinch together in confusion.

“Why would I call you what everyone else calls you? I like Sky better. Your eyes are blue like the sky.”

Her cheeks turn pink, and her eyes dart to the side.

Did I embarrass her? My dad says nice things to my sister and my mom, and they like it.

“Nothing’s wrong with your eyes. They’re pretty,” I say to make her feel better.

Her eyes meet mine again. “Thanks.”

“Where’d you move from?” I ask.

“Colorado Springs. We moved for my dad’s job.”

“What’s your dad do?” I ask.

“He’s a civil engineer,” she answers.

“A what?” I ask .

“He designs roads and bridges.”

“Right on. My older brother likes to build stuff,” I explain.

I’ve got an older sister named Sadie who is the same age as Sky. I hardly ever hang out with kids from my grade. I like my siblings and their friends better. My mom calls me an old soul, whatever that means.

“What do you want to be when you’re older?” I ask.

“A book editor. I love reading. You?”

“I’m going to be a professional winger for the NHL,” I reply proudly.

“What’s a winger?”

“A super fast player on a hockey team. We attack, get the puck and help score goals. Been skating since I was three years old, and playing hockey since I was four.”

“That’s cool.”

“You ice skate?” I ask.

“I’ve been a few times. It’s freezing.” Despite the warm weather, a shiver rumbles through her shoulders as if she’s remembering the cold.

“I love the cold. I feel like I’m flying when I speed across the ice,” I say.

There’s nothing like the feeling of stealing the puck and sailing across the rink towards the goal.

Sky and I lose track of time as we sit there in the tree talking. She shares about her old life in Colorado Springs, and I tell her about hockey.

As we talk, I pluck leaves off the branches, rip them up, then watch the pieces float to the ground.

Sky picks acorns off the tree and throws them to the ground. “Winters here are brutal. This’ll make it easier for the squirrels to find and bury them. They need all the help they can get.”

I’m sure the squirrels will be fine without Sky’s help, but I let her dream. My mom says to always chase our dreams.

I watch as she throws yet another acorn down, and when she looks up, her eyes meet mine. Instead of looking away, she holds my gaze, and I swear the air has magic in it. It’s electric and fresh, like when the puck drops on the ice at the start of a game.

Sky may be my new favorite friend.

I hear a door creak, and the spell is broken. We both look to her back porch at the source of the noise.

“Shy,” an older woman with glasses calls.

“Up here, Mom.”

“There you are,” she shields her eyes as she looks to the tree we’re in. “Time to go, sweetie.”

“Coming, Mom,” Sky replies, throwing one last acorn to the grass.

“Dude, your mom is old,” the words fly out before I can stop them, and Sky laughs.

“She is,” Sky agrees. “My parents married later in life. They couldn’t have kids of their own, so they adopted me as a baby.”

“Ah,” I murmur. I loop one arm around a sturdy branch, then hold her hand while she walks down the wooden fence.

Then, I stare at her until she disappears into her house. Sky is awesome, but my older sister and possibly my brother will want to be her friends. I wish I was four years older, because I want Sky all to myself.

I’ll always remember this: Sky was mine first.