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He’s right. Jolene seems standoffish with him when he acts more than friendly. Probably because of why they broke up, even though Sandra’s been trying to rewrite that false-cheating history for me. But if those old rumorsarewhy Jo is avoiding Jake and acting odd with him, I simply have to make her understand that Jake never broke her trust back then.
“Consider me your wingman,” I tell him forcefully. “I’ll get the lay of the land from Jo, figure out how you can win her over.”
I glance at the piles of food on the table, our brothers busy digging in. My stomach turns. Soon, Jolene will be at my house. Living in the room beside mine. Nothing but a thin wall between us while I play matchmaker. My goddamn body better behave, or rooming with Jolene will be as fun as spending another decade in witness protection.
chaptereleven
Callahan
I add a folded blue blanket to the end of the bed in my guest room. Then I snatch it off. Then I refold it and put it back on. Then I remove it again and shove my hand through my hair.
This pretty much sums up my last two hours.
Jolene will be here soon. My home is as tidy as always. The open living area is painted a soft gray. A blue-gray backsplash highlights the stainless-steel appliances and mottled gray countertop. I bought a dark gray couch and love seat, along with decorative throw pillows in shades of blue, gray, and white. I even have several black-and-white photographs on the wall, highlighting architecture and life in the early twentieth century. Details and decor I like.
Tonight, I’ve uselessly rearranged most things fifty times.
A knock at my door turns my stomach into a cement mixer. “Goddamn Lennon,” I grumble.
I don’t know what his deal is. When Desmond was terrified to face Sadie, Lennon orchestrated it so Des was stuck working with her. He pushed E to return to Windfall and face Delilah, when we still weren’t allowed to tell people about WITSEC and why we’d disappeared. Now he’s been in my face, asking unnerving questions, shoving Jo into me on bench seats and into my spare bedroom, like he thinks he’s cupid incarnate, ensuring his brothers all find love.
Except he’s matching Jolene with the wrong brother.
Inhaling deeply through my nose, I replace the stupid blanket on the end of the guest bed and stalk to my door, unsure why I’m practically stomping. I yank the door open and freeze. Jolene is standing slightly hunched under the weight of a bag, a pained look on her face.
“Let me take that.” I lift the bag from her shoulder, hating how she winces. “Go sit on the couch. Is the rest in your car?”
She’s wearing the same white T-shirt and jeans from work, but they look more wrinkled. She nods and rubs her eyes. “I’d normally yell at you for assuming a woman can’t handle moving a few bags, but your couch is calling my name.”
She walks stiffly toward the living area.
I drop her bag and beat her there, placing a cushion behind her back as she sits. “This okay?”
Her soft sigh hits me in the solar plexus. “Yeah, thanks.”
She sighs again, and my body heats uncomfortably.
“I’ll grab your stuff and be back shortly.” I hightail it out of there and give myself a mental slap.
My body shouldn’t react to a goddamn sigh. The woman is in pain. The last thing she needs is me getting all worked up over her breathy sounds. I mean, honestly. Have I not matured past my sex-obsessed fourteen-year-old self who got turned on by a girl blinking in my direction?
Her apartment better be repaired swiftly.
Although I could carry her two remaining bags in one trip, I drag it out into two. Upon my first return, Jo is leaning her head on the couch back with her eyes closed, but her hands are fisted at her sides. It takes all my willpower not to sit beside her and pull her into a reassuring hug. After my second trip, Jo is on her feet, poking around my living area.
My attention darts to my open bedroom door. I doubt she’d have gone in there. She certainly wouldn’t have opened my closet door or taken out the shoebox of memories I’ve kept since we were kids—the one item I took with me when we were shoved into WITSEC. I really should trash those relics.
She stops in front of the Berenice Abbott photograph by the kitchen and cocks her head.
“It’s a print,” I say, but my voice, for some unfathomable reason, comes out hoarse. “Manhattan in the late thirties.”
“I love how it looks like a slice of life with the horse and the old cars. And the looming bridge in the back is amazing.”
“I actually bought the prints in Houston,” I admit, “but never framed them or put them up.”
She glances at me over her shoulder. “Why?”
I shrug, not used to being asked personal questions. I didn’t invite close relationships during WITSEC. I’m the listener of my family, not the talker—the one who asks questions and offers concerned advice. I don’t burden others or lash out.
