“She didn’t deserve to die.”
“Well, you didn’t kill us at least.”
Now we’re both laughing on the side of the road, our hands waving in the air, the early afternoon sun warm. I peel off my sweatshirt and grab my phone.
It’s an instinct to call my mother. I’m not sure why I bother,because she doesn’t pick up. She almost never does. She’s not so forgiving if I don’t answer before two rings. But that’s how it works between us.
Fine. I’ll call Sloane or Sarah. Kate’s probably in Boston. At least Riley can head home safely, and I’ll wait for a tow truck.
“Mom won’t answer my texts.” Riley huffs. “Maybe someone will…”
Just my luck.
A green SUV pulls up beside us, then squeezes in front on the sandy shoulder.
The driver door opens, and a man jumps out in a tank and gym shorts, with a black hat turned backward. “Well this is one way to get my attention, Sinclair.”
I know the voice as soon as I hear it. Doesn’t stop me from spinning so fast I stumble and fall back against the rock, scraping my arm.
Of course. Of course he’s here. Of course I look like a wreck—no makeup, hair in a messy ponytail, my car literally smoking next to me, less than twelve hours after I fell asleep and drooled all over his shoulder.
And he looks…Jesus, the man has gorgeous corded arms, only made hotter by tattoos. It’s just unfair at this point.
“Fuck,” I mumble more at the universe than my scraped arm.
“Was cleared to drive this morning. I was heading back?—”
“Iz, is that… oh my god, it’s true? You’re dating Jack Murphy?”
“No.”
“Yes,” he answers at the same time.
Riley peeks between us. I pinch the bridge of my nose, suddenly a little swoony. “Yes,” I admit on a sigh.
Jack’s grin is slow and devastating, like he knows exactly what that admission cost me.
Chapter 11
Jack
Igrip the gear shift as a parade of red taillights ripples toward me. I gently tap the brakes.
“So you’ll come to dinner?” Bosko’s wife, Natalya, asks again.
I want to have dinner with her and Bosko like I need another concussion, but I appreciate the offer.
“One condition.” I swerve to the right to avoid the car in front of me. Beach traffic shouldn’t be an issue in October. What the fuck is going on? “I need to talk to my girl first.”
“Don’t start,” Bosko barks from the background before his wife calls out to their daughter to join them.
“I can’t help it if I’m her favorite.”
Lily has my jersey and refuses to take it off. She’s also three, and I’m pretty sure one day, she’ll rule the entire world.
“Jack!” Her little voice fills the car’s speakers, and go ahead, call me a softy, but I melt.
“Lily Billy, I have an important decision to make, and I need your help.”
