Page 49 of Reclaimed

Whether he’s talking about what went down with Frankie or what’s happening with Isla now, I can’t be sure.

“I appreciate you all helping out. She didn’t want me to stick around.”

“I imagine that wouldn’t have been too fun for them,” he laughs.

“Hey. I know how to have a good time.”

“I might not have seen you around lately, but if I recall, you have too much of a good time.”

“I’ve only wound up in Sutton’s cuffs once.” I defend my position, not telling him that was a sham arrest.

“Haven’t we all.”

The wind blows the fringe of hair around my ears and I adjust my hat. “They tell you when they’re done?”

Jack checks his phone, his sleeve riding up his arm enough to reveal the dark ink of his tattoos. “Whitney said they’d be ready in three minutes. That was fifteen minutes ago.”

I chuckle. “Here they come now.”

Isla’s door swings open, bathing her front porch in a golden glow. The girls chitchat in the entry, exchanging last-minute smiles and hugs.

“I’ll get my things. Thanks again, Jack. Tell the others.”

“Anytime.”

As I move back, he exits his car, his smile broadening as his wife bounces down the stairs and into his arms, her swollen belly keeping him from pulling her fully flush against him. She’s due next month, adding a third to the two kids she already had before they met. But those babies were so young, they only know Jack as their father. And now he’s about to have one of his own.

His happiness is infectious, most of the time. But tonight, after that dream, watching him have everything I want, but didn’t realize I wanted, I feel absolutely foul. By the time I haul the two paper bags and my duffel onto the porch, my mood hasn’t improved.

The rest of the women filter out, anyone with the last name or a partner with the last name of Powell jumping into Jack’s SUV while the two girls who must be Isla’s coworkers climb into their own hatchback and drive off.

The porch is empty. No Isla.

She isn’t in the entryway either.

After locking up behind me, I toe off my shoes and carry the paper sacks into the kitchen. She’s bent over the sink, furiouslyscrubbing a black pizza pan. At the sound of my bags hitting the wooden table, her head flies up.

“I’m almost done.” The red hue of her cheeks has me crossing the room.

“Almost done what?”

“Cleaning up.”

My eyebrows race up my forehead. “They didn’t help you clean up?”

“They did, but this pan got all gross from going in and out of the oven so many times. We had it soaking, but I was hoping to finish before you got back.”

I slowly close my eyes and inhale through my nose, reining in my irritation. “This is your house. No need to scrub it spotless on my behalf.”

“I just didn’t want to leave you a mess,” she whispers.

Easing my fingers into her grip, I extract the green sponge. “Out. You’re off duty, starshine.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

She takes in the straight set of my lips and the wrinkle I feel between my brows. A headache forms from the tense expression.

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