My criminal justice class is in one of the oldest buildings on campus, with seats so small and so packed it’s hard to squeeze out of them. There’s an old bell that still rings, from when colleges still had those. It runs a little early, and the professor always tries to keep talking.

Normally I like to be respectful, to take excellent notes, to be a model student. That’s something I did for myself, not for my parents, so I keep doing it now. Except when it comes to my last class of the day. Then I use my arm to sweep my books and notebooks into my messenger bag and dart into the horde of other impatient students. There’s chatter all around me. A frat party tonight. Some kind of protest happening in the quad. I’m sure it’s interesting, but I have my own kind of party to attend. My own kind of protest.

I skip down the old rubber-lined steps, keeping a light handle on the scarred wood railing. When I reach the bottom, I push out of heavy metal doors with the rest of the crowd. The sun makes everything glow—the concrete sidewalks, the flagpole. The cars lined up in the parking lot.

Tucking my bag close to my body, I dart along the sidewalk.

It takes me an extra second to find this car, because it’s parked behind a big delivery van. Then I see it, the white truck that’s distinctly Stone. There are way too many fancy cars in the garage, new ones, expensive ones. This is the one he drives.

I dash to the driver’s-side door, holding my breath. The door opens.

Then I’m sliding into the seat, tossing my bag into the back. The man in the passenger seat doesn’t say a word. At least until I start the engine with the remote key sitting in the cupholder.

“Five o’clock,” he says.

I glance in the rearview mirror. Sure enough there’s a suspicious-looking black Toyota sitting in the corner of the lot. Suspicious because the dust around the front bumper doesn’t match the license plate. It’s been switched. Recently. Probably from some poor car stuck in impound.

“No problem,” I say, easing out of the lot.

We’ll go west, which is also the direction that the Bradford Hotel is located. Of course we’ll probably go all four directions before this is over. That’s the fun part.

“What’s the plan?” I ask. “Anything I need to know? If Knox is cooking again, I vote we stop for takeout.”

Stone reaches over and slides a strand of my hair between two fingers. “Cruz on the grill.”

I smile. “That works.” Cruz on the grill means burgers. He gets creative, mixing in mushrooms and cheeses and crazy spices. He makes veggie versions for Calder. The guys make fun of that, but Calder’s impervious to any and all teasing. We’ll eat at the giant table, all nine of us. Sometimes Ryland noodles around on his guitar, taking requests.

I’ve never loved a place more than the Bradford Hotel. The guys are like a big, unruly family, but the love between them runs strong as steel. They yell a lot and argue and laugh too loud and even throw things when somebody’s being annoying or incredibly hilarious.

There are no rules. No stern glances when you take a second helping of dessert. No lectures on manners…unless they’re coming from me.

Not that I do it a lot—just the basics. For example, I’ve got the guys holding their dinner knives in their right hands while cutting food; then they put the knives down and switch their forks to their right hands to eat. They groaned a lot when I first taught it to them. Stone thought I was joking the whole time, but now they’re doing it. Maybe they do it just for me, but it’s a good thing to know.

Nate adopted the oldest of the boys—Miles—and he sometimes brings him around when things are quiet on the farm. He seemed happy to have Miles learn this stuff.

My parents still keep my stuff in my bedroom, and I visit them for Sunday dinner now and then, but I’m living at the Bradford full time while I go to the local college. The guys are fascinated by my criminal justice books—I sometimes catch them reading them—and you can tell they don’t know what to think about my plans to be a lawyer, but Stone is one hundred percent with me.

He still leads that group with the wild strength and passion that I love him for. I know that he comes off like he doesn’t need anybody in the world, but I also know a different part of him. I get a part of him that nobody else gets—the strong, passionate man who’s also tender, curious. Vulnerable, sometimes.

I took over one of the rooms for my study space and painted it yellow and decorated it with pictures and posters and a bookshelf full of my favorite novels.

Sometimes if I’m in there too long or late, Stone comes pounding at the door, blazing with raw heat, kissing me like a madman, shoving me up against the wall like we haven’t seen each other for a year.

The Toyota waits for a minute and a half before following.

“Are you sure?” He’s baiting me. “I can take over if you can’t lose him.”

Working with the authorities had one very nice bonus. Those arrest warrants for Stone? They’re gone. Which means he’s a free man. That doesn’t mean he’s off the hook for anything illegal he does now. That’s why Detective Rivera can’t let it go. He’s a good cop, down to the bone. He worked with Stone and his crew to free the boys, but he can’t leave us alone either.

And he’s desperate to figure out where their headquarters are.

It would put a wrinkle in the crew’s activities if they had to hide their comings and goings from Detective Rivera. The secrecy of the Bradford Hotel is a real advantage, but mostly the men just like it.

And maybe the women, too. Abby and I don’t really love the cops sniffing around, even if we like law and order. The men are a bad influence on us, maybe. But we’re a good influence on them. We complement each other. We help each other. …

“Give me ten minutes,” I say, pulling to a stop at a red light.

And most of all, we challenge each other.

Stone reclines in the passenger seat, watching the rearview mirror. He’s in a dusky green shirt that matches his eyes.

He gives me a quick grin. I can’t believe he’s mine, sometimes. I want to kiss him, to feel his hands on me, to feel his heat on me, but not yet.

The black Toyota changes lanes, oh so casually, the next lane over. “Ten? I don’t know. It took you almost twenty yesterday.”

The light turns green, and I grin. “Ten.”

“Prove it, little bird.”

I press the pedal to the floor, and we fly.

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