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“Too bad,” Connie said.
“But I helped her look for a long time,” Jack said then, giving his mom a wink.
“You were kind to help her out,” Doc said.
“It wasn’t kindness,” Jack said. “It was pure selfishness.”
Hank snorted a laugh.
Jack ignored it. “Because it was love at first sight.”
Jack turned then and gave me the dreamiest, most lovestruck look I’d ever seen. Then he tucked a wisp of hair behind my ear. “I just wanted any excuse to be around her.” Then he leaned back and put his hands behind his head, like he was reminiscing. “I saw that feisty, stumpy little lady climb out of her Land Rover with five hundred cameras, and I just knew.”
I frowned. “Did you just call me ‘stumpy’?”
“In a good way, Stumps,” Jack said.
I narrowed my eyes at him.
“In a lovable way,” Jack insisted. “In an adorable, irresistible, how-can-I-get-this-little-lady-trapped-in-my-mountain-cabin way.” Then he turned to his parents, grabbed me in a headlock that messed up my already messy bun, and said, “Look how cute she is.”
“I am not stumpy,” I said helplessly.
But Jack’s mother was totally on board. She leaned forward. “What do you like best about her?”
Jack released me and let me sit back. “I like these little wispy things that never quite make it into her bun. And how she looks like a wet cat when you make her mad. And actually”—he said, like this was just occurring to him—“I like how she gets mad. She gets mad a lot.”
“You like how she gets mad?” Doc Stapleton asked, like his son might have a few screws loose.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “People don’t really get mad at you when you’re famous. At first, it’s great—but after a while it starts to feel like you’re living on a planet with no gravity.” He thought about that for a second. Then he turned back to me. “But not Stumps! One sock on the floor, and I get the mad cat face. I love it.”
I glared at him from under my messed-up hair.
He pointed at my face with admiration. “There it is right now.”
Connie was loving this. She turned to me. “And what do you like best about Jack?”
I hadn’t prepared for this question. But an answer just popped right into my head. “I like that he thanks me all the time. For all kinds of things. Things I would never have expected anyone to thank me for.”
I glanced at Jack, and I could tell he knew that I’d said something true.
He studied me for a second, seeming to fall out of character. Then he picked up a wadded paper towel off the table and threw it at the kitchen trash can like he was making a free throw—and missed.
We stared at it where it landed.
Then Hank said to me, “What do you like least about him?”
“Least?” I asked. I hadn’t prepared for this one, either. But another answer popped up like magic. “That’s easy. He leaves his dirty clothes all over the floor.” Then I added, “It’s like the Rapture happened, and they took Jack first.”
A half second of silence, and then they all—even Hank—burst out laughing.
As they settled, Connie said to Jack, “Sweetheart, you’re not still doing that, are you?”
But as she was saying it, Hank was starting to leave, his face serious again as if he hadn’t meant to laugh, and now he regretted it. He moved toward the kitchen door and put his hand on the knob.
“You’re leaving?” Connie said with a tone, like We were all just starting to have fun.
“I’ve got work to do,” Hank said.
