Chapter 4 Isla
FOUR
ISLA
I don’t know why I’m on Jack Rhodes’ doorstep so late at night, hands on my hips.
If it were any other man, I would have blocked his number. But he doesn’t get to feel smug. He doesn’t get to act high-and-mighty. And he definitely doesn’t get to make fun of me when I opened up about something real for the first time in months.
There isn’t anything embarrassing or shameful about the work I do. So, if Jack’s gonna run his mouth about it, then I’m going to make him say it directly to my face. I’m not letting him hide behind his cell phone like a coward.
I raise my fist and knock hard enough to shake the doorframe.
Footsteps. A muttered curse. The sound of something clattering to the floor.
Then the door swings open.
And—
Oh.
Oh my God.
My brain short-circuits.
Jack is standing there barefoot, wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and the most catastrophic haircut I’ve ever seen on an adult human man. The top of his head is an aggressively bright shade of half-processed blond, blotchy and uneven. It’s been hacked short, too.
He looks like a golden retriever who wandered through a chemical spill.
My jaw drops, anger evaporating so quickly it’s almost insulting.
“What in God’s name,” I whisper, voice cracking, “did you do to yourself?”
Jack blinks at me, defensive and already annoyed. “Don’t start.”
But I can’t help it. My hand flies to my mouth, fingers trembling. I bend over on his porch, laughter ripping out of me in a way that feels like my lungs might stage a protest.
I can’t breathe. I can’t talk. I’m shaking.
He groans. “Isla.”
I’m wheezing now. “You . . . look like . . . one of those . . . penguins!”
That’s not even the half of it. He looks like a rockhopper penguin halfway through mating season, hair spiked in wild yellow tufts, deranged with confidence he absolutely hasn’t earned. But all I can manage between gasps is a few strangled syllables.
“It’s not that bad,” he says.
I look up at him in the porch light. It’s so much worse than bad.
I laugh harder.
Jack crosses his arms over his chest, glowering. “Are you gonna stand out there being a brat, or are you coming inside to help me fix it?”
I force myself upright, swiping at my eyes. My stomach still hurts from laughing. I’m seconds away from doing it again when I remember why I’m here.
Right. I’m furious with him.
I jab a finger into the solid wall of his chest. “Why should I help you? You think I’m a joke.”
His brows pull together. “Fuck if I do. When did I ever say that?”
“You were making fun of me.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” His shoulders drop a fraction, the fight draining right out of him. The change annoys me more than his attitude. “Isla, it’s a lot to wrap my head around because it’s just not something I’d ever picture. You’re . . . you. And this is . . . new.”
I scowl. “Exactly. You think it’s ridiculous.”
“No.” He shakes his head hard enough that one of the bright blond patches shivers. “I think it’s surprising. And bold. And honestly kind of impressive.” He gestures vaguely at me and the night and the universe. “There’s nothing shameful about working at Luxe.”
I narrow my eyes. “Then why did you sound like that on the phone?”
His mouth twitches. “Because it took me off guard. My natural instinct is to give you shit, no matter the situation. Whether you’re wielding a pruning saw or slinging mocktails in six-inch heels.”
I snort. “That’s comforting.”
“But if it’s a sore spot, I’m capable of holding my tongue. I’m a grown man, despite what the hair implies.”
“Debatable,” I mutter.
“Don’t push it.”
We glare at each other for a few seconds, a familiar tension tightening the air. It’s something we’ve always been good at. A dance we never bothered naming. I’m annoyed that he stood me up six years ago and never properly apologized. He’s annoyed that I won’t just let it go.
“So, what?” he says finally. “You picked up a second job to survive. That’s real life. And there’s nothing wrong with it. Honestly, it’s respectable. I hope you know I mean that. I’m sure you look sexy as hell up on that stage.”
A warmth flickers in my chest. A small, unwelcome one. I stomp on it immediately.
“And you won’t tell anyone, right?”
It’s not that I’m ashamed of it. I just don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to justify my work to everyone, to tell them that I’m only doing this because the orchard is failing. I don’t need my friends and the townsfolk to come to my rescue.
I can take care of things on my own; I always have.
“Not if you don’t want me to.” He studies my face with a focus that feels too steady for someone who looks like a radioactive bird. “Is this going to be a long-term thing?”
The question punches air right out of me.
I look around then, gripping my elbows as the cold creeps under my coat. The porch boards are chilled under my feet. A gust of early spring wind slices clean through me, and I shiver so hard my teeth click.
“I’d answer that if I wasn’t freezing my ass off,” I mutter. “Aren’t you going to invite me inside?”
“Uh—”
I’m done waiting. I push past him into the house.
Jack’s place is peak bachelor chaos. He has three pairs of dirty work boots by the door and a plaid jacket slung over a chair. There’s a stack of carpentry plans teetering on the coffee table. Mismatched throw pillows that look like they were inherited from a yard sale.
It’s not dirty or gross. Just a little disorganized and well lived in, smelling faintly of cedar shavings and something clean. Masculine in a way that would be charming if I weren’t already vibrating with irritation.
Jack closes the door behind me and immediately heads to the kitchen. “You want a beer?”
“Wine,” I say. “I need the good stuff.”
He pours me a glass of Mirabelle wine. I take a long sip, letting the heat settle my nerves. “Where’s the bleach?” I ask. “And the scissors.”
I may have pushed my own way in here. Still, if I’m proverbially stuck in the house of my long-suffering nemesis, forced to stand this close to him, I might as well make it productive. Fix something. Preferably the person directly in front of me so I don’t have to look him in the eye.
Jack recoils. “You’re not touching my head.”
“It’s the price of admission. You want my secrets; this is the exchange rate.”
He sighs the sigh of a desperate man. “Fine. Bathroom’s this way.”
We walk down the hall, him sulking and me sipping casually on my wine. His bathroom is surprisingly clean, which I find concerning. Men should not have counters this empty. Something about it feels wrong.
“Sit,” I order, pointing at the closed toilet lid.
“You’re bossy.”
“You’re patchy.”
He sits.
Under this lighting, the full horror of his hair makeover is breathtaking. I have to clamp my teeth together to keep from laughing again.
Jack is, annoyingly, a very good-looking man. He has a strong jaw, a crooked little mole on his left cheek, and shoulders far too broad for this tiny bathroom to contain. Not to mention, that mullet, disastrous in theory, really did something for him.
It made him look rougher around the edges, sexier. I would never admit that to him out loud, especially now that he’s hacked it into a chemical emergency, but I hadn’t exactly hated it. I liked it a little too much.
Rather than say any of that, I section what’s left of his hair and get to snipping. I’m good with sharp tools. Pruning shears, grafting knives, anything that asks for patience and accuracy. Hair feels less consequential than a fruiting branch, which makes this almost relaxing.
“You know,” I say, “next time you’re looking for an existential reset, try yoga. Or sleep. Or therapy.”
He snorts. “And miss this bonding experience? No chance.”
I hold back my grin. “Should we fully buzz it, you think?”
His head snaps toward me. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re going to look even more like a fuckboy if we keep the frosted tips.”
“Good thing I’m already thriving in my reputation.”
Jack has always been generous with his attention. He flirts with tourists, bartenders, women buying honey at the market, whoever happens to be standing in front of him long enough to catch the full force of that grin.
Every so often, he turns it on me, too, usually in between pissing me off and pretending not to enjoy it. I know better than to read into that. Jack flirts because he can. Not because he means it. I know that better than anyone.
“So,” he murmurs, watching my hands in the mirror. “Do you actually like working there? At Luxe?”
I lift a section of hair and angle his chin. “Tilt.”
He tilts. I apply bleach to an uneven patch.
“It doesn’t matter whether or not I like it,” I say. “It’s a job. It pays well.”
“Mmm.”
His lack of response makes something in me twitch. I don’t know if it’s irritation or relief. Maybe both. I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about it. Not Elsie. Not Winnie. Not even Dad.
If I did, the whole thing would explode in my face. I’d have to tell them how poorly the orchard was doing financially, and I’d have to admit that I’m in over my head.
Somehow, this is easier. Maybe because it’s him. Jack can carry things without forcing them out of me. He has no skin in the game.
“I am . . . tired. I wake up before dawn to deal with the orchard. I spend all day hauling crates and pruning trees and driving around town making deliveries. Then, instead of collapsing, I drive to the city, strip down, and dance under purple lights for strangers.”
Jack frowns.
“I don’t mind the dancing,” I continue. “Sometimes it’s fun. A break from everything. But it isn’t sustainable. I’m playing at being someone else every night, and I don’t know how long I can keep doing that.”
He exhales slowly, his jaw flexing.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” I say with a bitter little laugh, “I’ve been drowning.”
The cash flow is soon to run out, which is very poor timing, considering the late-summer fruiting. I need the proper funding to keep the place fully operational. Because as much as I enjoy doing things by myself, it’s simply not possible for me to manage hundreds of trees alone.
“I could help you.”
“No.”
He tilts his head. “I didn’t even say how.”
“You didn’t need to.” I rinse the comb. “I’m not taking your money.”
I know Jack does well with his renovation business. Everyone in Blue Willow knows. He’s booked out months in advance and charges rates that only a man with actual skill and a suspicious number of Yelp reviews can get away with.
But that doesn’t mean I want to be indebted to him financially.
Owing money to a friend, especially a grumpy one I’m actively annoyed by, is never a safe bargain. Not for me or my pride.
He huffs. “We could do a loan with interest if that makes you feel better.”
“I said no.” I smooth bleach over the last section. “I’ve been applying for grants and bank loans, but they all say the same thing. My income isn’t stable enough. I need someone else on the paperwork. Someone with perfect credit and a steady job.”
“Mmhmm.”
“It’d be easier to just marry someone for the benefits,” I joke weakly. “Whoever signs would need the right income, a pulse, maybe a working moral compass. That’s about it.”
Jack goes still and silent for a long, long time.
I know this man. I’ve known him long enough to read the weather in his posture. He’s usually pacing or shifting his weight like his body can’t keep up with his thoughts. He talks with his hands. With his shoulders. With his whole damn self.
His diagnosis of ADHD shows up in the way he starts three projects before finishing one, the way his mouth runs a mile a minute when his brain is finally happy.
I’ve always liked that about him. The motion and the restless energy. The way he feels alive, even when he’s annoying the hell out of me. So, this version of him, quiet and locked down, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder, makes my skin prickle.
It feels like I hit an OFF switch.
“Why are you so unnaturally quiet?”
He swallows thickly. “I’m thinking.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
He doesn’t crack a smile at my poorly timed jab. “What if I marry you?”
The brush slips from my fingers and clatters into the sink.
I stare at him; he stares back. And the entire world tilts sharply to the left.