Page 20 of You Wish
“Your call.”
She went to shut the door in his face when he stuck his foot in the jamb. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“There’s a bench right there.” She looked at the white wrought iron bench on her porch that had garland and twinkle lights wrapped around it, and back to him. “Get comfortable.”
“That’s not very neighborly of you.”
“I’m not feeling very neighborly.” Her gaze sharpened, the human equivalent of a lie detector test. “Wait, how did you know where I lived?”
“I have a friend who has a friend. It’s amazing what box seats to the Cowboys can do.”
“Jane,” she mumbled.
“Now, since we’ve established how I got here, can I come in?”
She held open the door, but not before sighing as if her world was ending.
Jake entered the house and took it all in. It was warm and cozy and smelled like cinnamon and vanilla with a hint of lavender—it smelled like Georgia. Without being obvious, he took a deep breath.
“Did you just smell my house?” she asked.
“You’re making your famous waffles.”
“Made and consumed.”
“You’re saying there’s none left?” She went quiet. “Remember, you are a terrible liar.”
She considered her options, and he saw the moment she decided he was right. “As long as you stay in the kitchen while I get ready.”
He tapped his watch. “Times a-tickin’.”
She ignored him and headed down the hallway. He took a moment to appreciate the swing of her hips. It was more confident, more deliberate, than when they’d been in college.
Jake found his way to the kitchen and his mouth watered at the warm scent of home cooking. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something so decadent. He was on a strict food regimen to ensure he was in prime condition. Then again, he was off for the next two weeks. Maybe he could splurge for half of that time. It wasn’t like his grandma was going to let him skip her famous gravy and blue-ribbon buttermilk biscuits.
Jake walked straight to the island and picked up the waffle. No plate, no syrup, he just took a bite.
Holy hell, it tasted even better than he remembered. Sweet, crunchy, and with a hint of cinnamon. He polished it off in under a minute and went in for seconds. He could have had a third, but he knew she was going to freeze it for a later date.
Not sure what else to do, he rummaged through the drawers until he found a plastic bag for the waffle. Sealed tightly, he put it in the freezer, then listed his options. He could sit at the table like a good guest, or he could peruse the house to get a glimpse into the girl who’d become a woman.
The front room looked like it had stepped straight out of a glossy 1940s magazine—cheery yellow walls trimmed with white molding, an antique couch, and a pair of wingback chairs that finished the vibe. Above the mantel, beneath a dreamy landscape painting, sat a parade of framed photos, chronicling her brother’s life from squishy newborn to full-grown troublemaker.
Jake remembered the first time he’d met Connor. Georgia had wanted to introduce the two of them, and he’d had a hard time saying no to her.
He hadn’t planned on staying long. He was a twenty-year-old, cocky, Formula 2 driver and convinced Sunday dinners were for people with nine-to-fives, not up-and-coming drivers with sponsors to impress. But Georgia had insisted, so there he was — helmet hair and all — carrying a box of overpriced pastries as a peace offering.
“Be nice,” Georgia murmured as she opened the front door.
“I’m always nice,” he muttered, which earned him a snort.
The kid in the living room looked up from a spread of car magazines, brown eyes narrowing as if assessing his competition. Eleven, all elbows and curiosity, with a mop of hair sticking up like he’d forgotten a comb existed. Jake noticed the wheelchair — of course he did — but it was the way Connor sat in it, like it was just another seat in the house, that stuck with him.
“So you’re him,” Connor said. “The guy who nearly clipped the guardrail in Monza last season.”
Jake blinked. “I stuck the turn.”
“Barely,” Connor shot back. “You were half a degree from eating gravel.”
