Free Family Tree by Susan Wiggs Page A

him,” she said to Fletcher. “He gets stressed out during the sugar season.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you just tell him Degan was being a douche to you?”
    â€œI didn’t want—” She cut herself off. “Good question. I don’t know why. And speaking of those douche bags, aren’t you worried they’re going to retaliate?”
    He gave a short laugh. “It won’t keep me up at night.”
    â€œWell, thank you for stepping in.” She liked talking to him. He was . . . different. Not like the guys she’d come through school with.
    â€œWant a hand with anything else?”
    Yes . She tried to act cool. “Sure, that would be great.” She checked the density of the syrup with a hydrometer. Then she showed him how the sugar sand was removed by pushing it through a filter press. The clear, golden syrup was ready, flowing into the barrels. She caught a sample in a coffee cup and handed it to Fletcher. “Let that cool a bit and take a taste. You’ll never give that squeeze bottle another look.”
    He blew on the cup, his lips pursing as if in readiness for a kiss. She felt mesmerized, watching him. He took a taste, and a smile spread slowly across his face. “That flavor is amazing,” he said.
    They finished the chores together, working side by side as they talked. “You just moved to Switchback, right?” she asked. As if she didn’t know. When he’d enrolled in school a couple of weeks ago, a tidal wave had spread through the girls of the senior class. New guys were rare in this small town. New guys who were cool and good-looking and interesting created a major stir.
    â€œYep.”
    â€œAnd?” she prompted.
    He gave her a slantwise grin, full of charm. “And what? Where’d I come from, what’s my family like, how’d I wind up in Switchback?”
    â€œAt the risk of being nosy, yes.”
    â€œI can handle a nosy girl.” He helped her scrub out the equipment. “My dad’s a mechanic, specializes in foreign imports, but he can fix anything.”
    â€œI saw where he bought Crestfield’s garage in town.”
    Fletcher nodded. “He imports scooters from Italy, too. Fixes them up and sells them, mostly online.”
    â€œAnd your mom?”
    â€œIt’s just my dad and me.”
    â€œOh. So where’s your mom?”
    He shot her a look.
    â€œYou said you could handle a nosy girl,” she pointed out.
    â€œI’ll tell you about her,” he said. “Just not today.”
    â€œFair enough.” She felt bad for prying, and changed the subject. “My mother’s an artist. She draws and paints. Never studied it formally, but she’s really good. See the illustration on the maple syrup tin? And on our label?” She gestured at a storage shelf crammed with containers. “It’s from a painting by my mom. The kids in the picture are Kyle and me.”
    â€œHey, that’s cool. What about your dad?”
    â€œHmm. I’ll have to think about whether or not I want to tell you,” she said, lightly teasing.
    â€œIt’s cool,” he said. “That way, we’ll have something to talk about next time.”
    Next time .
    â€œIt’s no big secret. My father took off when I was ten,” Annie said. She wondered if the old fear and confusion and hurt still echoed in her voice. “I didn’t see it coming. Which is weird, because they fought a lot.”
    â€œYou were just a kid.”
    â€œMom says he was always dreaming of adventure somewhere else. Then, right after Kyle turned eighteen, Dad said he’d bought acreage on a beach in Costa Rica, and he was going to build a surf camp there.”
    â€œCosta Rica sounds amazing.”
    â€œI thought so, too. My mom and grandparents, not so much. Mom was so mad she divorced him and took back her maiden name and changed mine and Kyle’s to Rush, too. She wanted