Chapter 6 Isla
SIX
ISLA
“Oh God,” I say, scrunching my nose. “What are those?”
Jack is tall and damp and far too cocky for someone who should be groveling. Rain drips from the ends of his frosted hair. His T-shirt is soaked straight through, clinging enough to suggest he knew exactly what he was doing when he chose it.
“Your favorite flowers,” he says, like it’s a foregone conclusion. As if he didn’t just show up here, dripping wet, uninvited, looking like the opening scene of a sad indie romance.
“Those aren’t my favorites,” I say flatly.
It’s true, technically. They’re my second favorite. But I’m not about to tell him that.
My actual favorites only grow in late summer, after the heat has settled in and the soil is all thick and sweet underfoot. Bee balm and sweet alyssum. They’re the kind of flowers that take their time.
These, with their crumpled petals and wild-looking stems, are early spring bloomers. Yarrow, golden ragwort, fleabane—scrappy little things that bloom anyway, even before the last frost has finished sinking into the ground.
If he got them from Winnie, then she probably picked them out herself, which means he doesn’t get the satisfaction of being right about anything.
Jack lifts a brow, unfazed. “Right. Because your favorites are what, peonies? Roses? Something that costs twenty bucks a stem and dies in two days?”
I roll my eyes and snatch the bouquet out of his hands. He’s already stepping inside my cottage, trailing water and wounded pride across the floorboards.
“If this is about your deranged marriage proposal,” I snap, “you can just forget it. I’m over it.”
“Clearly.”
I fold my arms. “I was surprised, that’s all.”
I gave up on any romantic ideas I had about Jack a long time ago. I gave him one chance at a date, and he flaked. It may seem like a simple oversight, but I take my time and my energy seriously. I’m worth more than that.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. For once in his life, he doesn’t have a glib comeback ready to go.
I take my time filling up a vase at the sink. I trim the stems, slide them into place, and set the vase on the counter.
He follows me into the kitchen. It’s close enough that I feel the heat of him at my side. When I move, my shoulder brushes his arm, and my skin buzzes.
“Look, I didn’t mean to run out of your place like that,” I say, not looking at him. “I mean, I had good reason, but that was kind of, I don’t know, immature.”
“Cool,” he says. “Then I didn’t mean to propose, either.”
I give him a sharp look. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“You were spiraling. I panicked. Thought maybe if we gamed the system, you could catch a break. I’m sorry I upset you.”
He’s sorry he upset me?
“You offered to marry me so I could qualify for grant funding,” I say. “Don’t you think I wanted my first-ever proposal to be about something real? A man who actually loves me, getting down on one knee with his heart in his hands and a future in his eyes?”
Marriage is something I only vaguely let myself picture. Letting people in has never come easy to me, not after watching my mother love my father for years and then leave him anyway. Leave both of us, really, with one suitcase and no backward glance.
Then there was the last man I chose, six years ago, an out-of-towner who made me feel wanted right up until I found out he was engaged. To him, I was a convenient secret. A bright little detour before he went back to his real life.
Jack was the first guy to ask me on a date after our breakup. Now, I consider his fuckup part of the collateral damage. I figured I’d eventually get over it all. That I might marry a man I love and raise a singular child together on the orchard.
“You know, you’re the one who brought up marriage,” Jack says. “I thought it was a hint.”
I scoff, turning away before he sees the flush rise in my cheeks. “I was messing around.”
His mouth presses into a frown and then a thin line. He knows I’m deflecting, and I hate that he can still read me when I barely make sense to myself.
“I’m sorry if I scared you,” he says. “I didn’t mean to push. I was just trying to help. And maybe I don’t know exactly how to say the right thing at the right time, but I do show up when it matters.”
I swallow heavily.
He gestures toward the flowers. “You can throw them out if you want. But I didn’t bring them here to fix anything. I brought them so you’d know I was thinking about you.”
A dull ache blooms behind my ribs. I hate him a little bit for it. For meaning it and for being the one person who always makes the mess and brings the broom.
“They’re still not my favorite,” I say, because God forbid I let him have the last word.
His eyes glint. “Second favorite?”
I stare at him. “Winnie told you.”
“She didn’t have to.”
He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a smile. Instead, I jerk my chin toward the kitchen stools. “If you’re going to drip on my floor, you might as well sit down where there’s a rug. I don’t want you warping the floorboards.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He drops onto one of the stools, long legs folding awkwardly beneath the island. I stay where I am, arms crossed, the sink still between us. It’s a buffer I very much need.
“Look,” I say, picking at a loose thread in my sleeve. “I was surprised. And yes, I was angry. I’ve stayed angry because it felt like you were confirming something I’m already afraid of.”
“What’s that?”
“That I’m so deep in this that the only way out is to treat my life like a business transaction.” My heart gives a hard, painful lurch. “Like I’m not a person anymore, just a problem to be solved in a strategic way.”
“You’re not a problem. You’re a person who’s been dealing with bullshit for way too long. There’s a difference.”
“Feels thin from my side,” I mutter.
“I know.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
“I want you to know that when I asked you to marry me, I wasn’t thinking, hey, she’s some desperate charity case.
I was thinking, this could give her some goddamn breathing room.
You’re not out of options, Isla. You have options, and I wanted to be one of them. ”
I chew on that for a second. “I appreciate it. And I forgive you for stealing my first proposal, but my forgiveness is conditional and subject to review.”
He gives me a small, crooked smile. “I’ll take it.”
“Did you bring anything else in that box, or was it just emotional trauma and flowers?”
He perks up. “I brought honey.”
“Of course you did.”
“I’m not showing up at a legacy orchard without a consumable offering,” he says. “That’d be rude. Also, if you hate the gesture, then it was all Winnie’s idea.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach chooses that moment to remind me I haven’t eaten since lunch. “You hungry?”
He nods immediately. “Starving.”
“We’ll have honey and . . . something,” I say. “Sit tight.”
We circle each other as I pull plates from the cabinet, and he rummages through them like he’s been here a thousand times. He finds the good bread, a block of sharp cheese in the fridge, and one lonely apple in the bowl on the counter.
“You live like a raccoon.”
“Raccoons are survivors. Don’t knock it.”
He slices bread while I cut cheese and apple. Then he opens the jar of honey with a soft pop. The scent is wild and sweet and green. I’ve always been a fan of Winnie’s early spring batches, and I’m lucky she still gifts them when I chronically forget to bring the jars back to her.
Once everything’s laid out, Jack and I settle at the island with our messy little feast.
He reaches for the bread, then stops halfway. His hand hovers in midair, brows pulling together. The pause is dramatic enough that I twist around to find the source of interest.
Jack’s gaze is stuck on the mudroom doorway, where a pair of red platform heels hangs lazily from a hook.
His mouth quirks. “So, what do they have you wearing over there? Capes? Sequins? Something with tassels?”
I huff. “You’re obsessed.”
“I’m curious,” he corrects.
“Mostly silk and lace. They save the feathers for people with better balance.”
He hums, filing that away. “Anyone there bothering you?”
Roland pops into my mind immediately. While he hasn’t tipped himself over the edge yet, he is bordering on too much. “There’s this one guy who’s a little over-the-top. He’s a regular that’s always keeping tabs on everyone.”
His brows draw together. “What’s his name?”
“I’m not telling you that,” I say quickly. “It’s nothing to worry about. He’s just . . . observant. And he tips well if I give him little tidbits of info about the other patrons.”
“Sounds like he’s paying for a reason to stare at you longer.”
I kick his shin under the table. “Be serious.”
“I am serious,” he says. “If someone’s gonna look at you, they should have the guts to do it without pretending it’s about something else.”
“That was weirdly intense for a man eating cured meat off a cutting board.”
He eats a few more pieces of salami, then glances up at me. “You said before it wasn’t sustainable. That it makes you tired. That you keep at it because it pays the bills. But would you still choose to dance if you had another viable option?”
“Maybe . . . probably. It’s something fun and different that gets me out of my head. If I didn’t have the orchard, maybe I’d do that instead. I don’t know. Does that sound weird?”
Dancing isn’t just standing there naked, shaking what my mother gave me.
It’s muscle and control. It’s bruises on the backs of my knees while I learn how to hold myself up on a spinning pole. It’s being in the best shape of my life and still walking out at 2:00 a.m. like my bones are full of sand.
When I quit, I think I’ll miss it. Or at least I’ll miss the part of me that feels powerful and free out there.
He smiles faintly. “You’re allowed to like things that aren’t wholesome, farmer-approved hobbies, you know.”
“Tell that to half this town,” I mutter.
For all its beauty, Blue Willow can be painfully old-fashioned. The magic here runs deep, but so do the opinions, and not all of them are generous. It’s part of why I’d rather keep that line of work to myself.
He chews thoughtfully. “If anyone gives you grief about it, you tell me who, and I’ll find a legal way to start a fight.”
I huff out a laugh. “You can’t solve every problem with male rage.”
“Watch me.”
While we eat, Jack tells me about the deck job with Nico, about how the homeowner’s dog keeps stealing his work gloves. I tell him about Simone and her silver boots, about my friend Priya, who does a full split on the main pole and then goes home to study for the bar exam.
He listens to me ramble. Not with that polite, distracted expression people get when they’re waiting for their turn to talk. He asks questions. He doesn’t judge.
When I tell him about the regular who cried when Simone danced to “Whiskey Lullaby,” he snorts and says, “Nothing like tits and ass to bring up unresolved trauma.”
I laugh, hard, and the knot in my chest loosens a little.
Eventually, the food’s gone, and the honey jar’s half-empty. I gesture toward the living room. “We can relocate if you want. Or you can keep judging my pantry from there.”
“Lead the way.”
I sink into my spot on the couch. He claims the other end.
Long legs stretch out and nudge my coffee table, jeans clinging to his thighs in a way that’s honestly rude. This man has wildly muscular thighs. But at least his goofy hair is still a pale, chaotic halo under the lamplight.
That softens the blow. Though I have to admit it’s grown on me a little.
The bad bleach job somehow makes his eyes look warmer, more golden brown than usual. It should be ridiculous. Instead, it only makes the familiar crooked grin of his hit harder.
This is Jack. Annoying, impulsive, too quick with his mouth and not nearly quick enough with his filter.
He’s the man who rolls up in his truck with a toolbox in the passenger seat when my barn door jams. The man who notices when I haven’t eaten and then pretends it’s a coincidence when leftovers from the inn show up on my porch.
He’d be a damn good husband, wouldn’t he?
He’d show up. He’d keep the house from falling down. He’d make my dad laugh on the bad days. He’d sit in town meetings and glare at our enemies (read: Beau Langford). He’d take the hits from the town gossip so I didn’t have to.
It would be in name only.
On paper, it would solve everything. The grant application wouldn’t look like a desperate single woman trying to rescue a failing orchard out of sentiment. It would look like a committed household investing in a piece of community history.
We could stack his income with mine. Combine our credit scores. Satisfy whatever bureaucratic rubric some stranger in an office invented.
“I can see smoke from here,” Jack says quietly. “What are you thinking so hard about?”
My instinct is to deflect. Instead, I take a beat. I take a breath.
“You really wanna know what I’m thinking?”
His brows lift. “Yeah, I do.”
My heart thumps once, hard, then settles into a strange, determined rhythm. “If that proposal of yours is still on the table, I think we can make it work. But first, I need to know what’s in it for you.”