After her parents die, a sixteen-year-old girl is taken in by the family next door. Four years later, their son is no longer just the boy who protected her, and wanting him could cost her the only home she has left.
The summer I was sixteen, my parents died, and the Morgan family next door took me in. Their son, Dane, was three years older. He left for college soon afterward, but he called every night and came home on the days I had the hardest time getting through. For four years, he was the safest, most familiar person in my life.
On my first day at Marlowe University, Dane called my name across a courtyard full of strangers. I turned and forgot what I was about to say. His rolled sleeves showed stronger forearms; his shoulders had broadened. The face I had known for years looked different. Dane smiled, unaware, and rested his hand on my head as he always had. My pulse jumped beneath the familiar touch. I kept looking at him.
That night, I lay in bed with my eyes closed. The door opened quietly, and Dane came in. He drew the blanket higher over me, then stood still. His fingertips brushed a strand of hair away from my face.
“I know I shouldn't.”
His voice was low, as if he believed I was asleep.
“But somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing you as the girl next door.”