I catch him, my fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his gray sweatpants, brushing against his hipbone. My heart lurches into my throat when he shoots me a look over his shoulder. Bright-blue eyes, even in the dead of night.
“If you want to sleep with me, you just have to ask, Izzy.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you do anything besides flirt?”
“Sometimes I play hockey.”
“Oh, yeah? What team?”
The corner of his mouth kicks up. “Smart-ass.”
Jack leans his head against the door, shoulder brushing mine as I crawl in beside him in the back seat. Annie sits to my right, giddy that she has the cop’s phone number for a date.
“I thought you didn’t care,” he whispers. It’s so low, I hardly hear it over the heater blasting. Then, without waiting for my answer, he tosses some inside joke toward Sloane and Ethan in the front seat.
His hand shifts on the seat between us. I’m sure it’s not intentional, he’s just fidgeting…
But his fingers graze the back of mine, warm and rough. I should pull away.
I don’t.
The truck sways to the left as we hit a pothole merging onto Storrow.
“Watch your head, Jack. One concussion tonight is enough.” Annie yawns, then grabs a sweatshirt from Ethan and wraps it around herself.
“Stay awake,” Ethan reminds him.
Jack doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say a word, as he hums a raspy “Okay” and slips his fingers into mine. And I keep my hand right where it is, our fingers intertwined the whole way to Merritt Point.
Chapter 7
Jack
Awarm, rough tongue swipes up the middle of my face, scraping against my nose. I wince, jarring back.
“What the fuck, Wally?” I shield myself with a lumpy throw pillow tucked against my chest, but Wally is a beast and pries it away, then attacks me with another slobbery kiss.
My brother’s laugh booms not far away in the kitchen.
“Fuck you too,” I groan.
“Leave him alone, bud.” Ethan follows up with a sharp whistle. My brother’s chocolate-brown lab turns, his feet padding against the wooden floor until I hear him circle, then drop down with a loud sigh.
I yank the blanket higher, but my feet stick out. “What am I doing on the couch?”
“Didn’t think you were picky about where you slept.”
“Cute.”
I crack an eyelid open as Ethan stands behind the counter of his new place and pops open a canister of coffee. He rented a small beach house with Sloane not far from Main Street after the fire at the restaurant in August. Merritt’s Catch Lobster Co.was a total loss, including the small apartment where Ethan had lived for the past twelve years.
Everything is fuzzy around the edges, and too fucking bright. The creamy-white walls of the old craftsman glow from the warm September sun filtering in through the sheer curtains. It smells like the house had been closed up for years. All mothballs and cedar, and now the intense bite of Italian espresso Sloane insists is coffee and not pure jet fuel.
“I’ll drive you over to Mom and Dad’s later if you want to visit. Sure they’d love to see you. They’re worried. Nana too.”
“I don’t need babysitters.” I fall back against the couch, unable to sit up. My head is pounding, and there’s a sharp stabbing in my ribs. “It was worth it.”
“Almost cracking your head open on the ice?” Ethan braces his arms on the counter, glaring at me.
