Page 58 of I Wish You Were Mine

I turn at the sound of my sister’s voice. “Hey, y’all. How’s it going?”

“What’re you doing here, Jen?” Abel puts his hands on his hips. “Haven’t been seein’ you much these days.”

Jen holds a hand up to her forehead. Her eyes flick appreciatively over my friend’s bare torso. “Tuck hasn’t needed help now that he’s got Maren. But I missed y’all, so thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

“Hello,” Abel says with a grin.

Rolling my eyes, I step between them. I love Abel. I love my sister too. Which is exactly why this little flirtation between them can’t go anywhere. It’ll end in disaster. As long as I’ve known him, Abel’s never been in a relationship. And as long as I’ve known my sister, that’s all she wants. She’s a serial monogamist who dreams of the white picket fence and kids. Abel is many things, but a family man ain’t one of them.

Jen’s eyes move to me. “Abel, is he in a better mood after some exercise?”

“Was hoping that’d be the case, but he’s still pretty ornery.”

“Maybe he’s hangry.”

Abel’s grin breaks into a smile. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“All right, y’all, we’re done here. Jen, why don’t you come over a little later? I’m making pork chops for dinner.”

“Maybe that’ll do the trick.” My sister nudges me with her elbow. “You joining us, Abel?”

I muster my best death stare and aim it at Abel.

He takes the hint. “I got, uh, some work to do. Lots of work.”

Thank God. Last thing I want is for my sister to end up pining after someone she can’t have.

It’s a special hell I know very, very well.

I shoo everyone—Maren, Jen, Katie—out of the house while I make dinner. I hear them playing on the deck while I make a big pot of mashed sweet potatoes and sear the pork chops in a cast iron skillet.

The silence in the kitchen is suffocating.

Or maybe it’s my sense of duty, always urgent, that’s suffocating. I need to stay away from Maren, so I do. I need to be smart, so I am.

I drink my whiskey sour alone and miss her in the meantime. I think I miss talking to her most of all. I always felt better afterward.

I shake up some extra cocktails for her and Jen, which they gratefully accept when they come back inside half an hour later.

Jen sips, then smacks her lips. “Wow, that’s good.”

“Everything Tuck makes is excellent.” Maren brings the glass to her mouth. Sips. Her brow immediately creases. “Did you put something different in it this time?”

“No. Why?”

She takes another sip. “I don’t know. Just doesn’t taste like it usually does. It’s not bad, just... different.”

“I can make a new batch?”

“No, really, it’s fine.” Maren waves me away, even as she gets this funny look on her face. I can’t read it, but I know whatever she’s thinking about—feeling—definitely isn’t fine.

Jen looks at me, then looks at Maren. Looks at me again.

Ignoring her, I turn back to the stove. The girls set the table and I plate the food. We all sit, Katie included. She even sits on her bottom without having to be reminded.

The pork is an old recipe, one I’ve made dozens of times, and I’ve learned how to cook it perfectly.

“Delicious,” Jen says.

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