Page 84 of Tattered (Lark Cove 1)

“Hope so.” He stood from his stool and went behind the bar for a

refill. “While you’re there, go get a Giovanni’s meatball sub for me. Damn, I miss those things.”

Giovanni’s had been three blocks away from my orphanage and right around the corner from Jackson’s foster home. I smiled, thinking of all the times the two of us would share one of those foot-long sandwiches. It was rare. We couldn’t afford them often. But whenever one of us had a couple extra bucks, we’d splurge. Even when we’d both moved out of Brooklyn, he and I would take trips back for a meatball sub.

Jackson hadn’t lived in my orphanage, but he’d met Hazel at a grocery store in our neighborhood where he’d been trying to shoplift a candy bar. She’d caught him before the store owner could and dragged him back to the orphanage. She’d fed him a decent meal and shoved a bag of peas on his black eye—a recent gift from his foster father.

I’d walked into the kitchen that day and the rest was history. Jackson and I became closer than most siblings, while Hazel acted like a mother to us both, making sure we were fed and that our homework was always done.

Still, we were dirt-poor, and since Hazel wasn’t our legal guardian, there was a limit to what she could do. Bad things still happened to us both. Those meatball subs were most often shared when one of us was at our lowest.

And as much as I’d like to have one again, it wouldn’t be the same without Jackson. After he’d moved to Lark Cove, I hadn’t gone to Giovanni’s again.

“I doubt we’ll be spending much time in Brooklyn.” I shivered at the idea of going back to that neighborhood. Besides, Logan was Upper East Side through and through.

“Probably not. I wouldn’t go back either.” Jackson took the soda gun and filled his glass, then he turned and grabbed my sketch pad. He set it on the bar, flipping through the pages. “You’ve almost got this one full.”

“When I get back, you’d better have a new one waiting for me.”

He chuckled. “Done.”

When I’d first moved to Lark Cove, I’d complained to Jackson about how boring it was at night when the bar was slow. He’d bought me a sketch pad and told me to quit bitching. Since then, I’d filled a ton of sketch pads with my drawings of random bar patrons. Every time I ran out of pages, I’d come in to work to find a new one on my desk in the office.

“Who were you drawing tonight?” he asked, reaching the end of the book.

“You’ll see.”

He turned to the last page, where I’d drawn Willa’s profile.

She’d been in earlier for dinner. I hadn’t seen her since she’d watched Jackson kiss me and I could tell she’d been nervous. But after I’d explained to her that there was nothing there and Logan had come in with Charlie, she’d seemed relieved.

Willa had looked beautiful tonight. She’d sat in one of the booths by the front windows and the evening sunbeams had made her long, wavy hair shine like strands of gold. So, I’d picked her as my model. Mostly the drawing concentrated on her hair but I’d also made sure to highlight her high cheekbones and shy smile.

“She’s hot.” Jackson looked up from the book and scanned the bar like he expected her to still be here. “I’m sorry I missed her. Who is this?”

My jaw dropped. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Who is this?” He looked back to the page. “Was she just passing through or do you think she’ll be back?”

“Do I think she’ll be back?” My voice rose as I stood from my stool and rounded the bar. “Give me that.” I swiped the sketch pad away from him, making sure we were talking about the same drawing.

It was. So I shoved the page in his face. “That is Willa, you dipshit.”

“No fucking way.” He yanked the pad from my hands. “She doesn’t look like this.”

“Yes fucking way she does.”

He bent closer to the paper, studying it before looking back to me. “She does?”

“Oh my god.” I tossed up my hands and walked away, going to check on the guys in the corner booth. They were ready to leave, so I rang up their tab and cleared some glasses, waving good night before going back to Jackson. He was still staring at Willa’s picture. “Do you see it yet? Or am I really that bad of an artist?”

“Huh?” He jerked up, forcing his eyes away from the sketch. “I, uh, gotta go,” he muttered, still in a daze as he hugged me good-bye and walked out with my sketch pad.

I smiled as the back door banged closed.

He finally got a clue.

Jackson might not like change, but I had a feeling that by the time I got back from New York, he would have made a few changes of his own.