Chapter 18 Isla #2
He shifts his weight and bends to unlace them, one hand braced on the counter while the other works at the laces. His forearm tightens with the effort, tanned skin dusted with dark hair and fine sawdust that somehow still clings there.
He lines the boots up by the door, shrugs off his jacket, then peels off the flannel next. When he drags his work shirt over his head, my own eyes betray me.
It’s just a plain white undershirt—thin and soft in the places it’s been washed too many times. It clings to him in a way that highlights every line of musculature beneath it. His shoulders. His arms. The solid stretch of his chest when he rolls his neck.
His jaw works once, grinding down whatever thought he’s chewing on.
He catches me looking and gives me this small, knowing glance that makes my face heat.
“What?” I ask immediately, because if I speak first, maybe I can control the room. “Long day?”
“Long day,” he confirms. “You survive the girls?”
I move toward the sink. “They brought me food, at least.”
“As they should.”
I keep my back to him, scrubbing a pan that’s already clean. “Winnie asked how married life is treating me.”
“Did you tell her we’re having wild, passionate sex on every flat surface in the house?”
I drop the sponge in the sink. Water splashes the counter. “Stop it.”
Jack’s brows lift. He leans a hip against the counter near the back door and crosses his arms, like he’s settling in for a show. “Stop what, exactly?”
“We talked about your chronic joking habit.”
His mouth twitches. “I can never joke with you again? For as long as I so live?”
“I need you to take this seriously!” I inhale and force myself to lower my voice. “I think we need some more boundaries.”
“Okay,” he says carefully. “What are you thinking?”
I wipe my hands on the dish towel. I don’t look at him, because if I look at him, I’m going to get distracted by the way his forearms flex under that thin T-shirt. Why does he have to be so inconveniently hot?
“How about no touching?”
Silence.
Then, “Isla,” he says, like he’s trying to confirm he heard me correctly. “We’re married.”
“It’s paperwork,” I shoot back.
“Paperwork that involved a ring. Paperwork that involved a kiss, and a new living arrangement, and me being in your life every single damn day.”
I lift my chin. “No touching. No flirting. No late-night talks. None of it.”
He blinks once, slow. Then he lets out a strained breath through his nose.
“What?”
He pushes off the counter, gesturing between us with one hand. “We live together in a very small house.”
“For now.”
He points at the table. “We’re spending an awful lot of time together.”
“For now,” I repeat.
“We have to go to town meetings together. We have to do public behavior. We have to keep the story straight so we can get the money you need to keep this place alive. And you want there to be no touching.”
“Yes. Can you possibly restrain yourself?”
He stares at me like I just told him the whole orchard is moving to Florida.
“You do realize that most married people touch each other, at least incidentally.”
“I don’t mean incidental touching,” I snap. “I mean all the . . . the extra stuff.”
His mouth quirks. “Extra stuff.”
“Yes.”
His eyes flick down to my hands. “Okay,” he says. “So this is about what, exactly? You made yourself come while picturing me in the shower the other night, and now you’re worried you’ll be tempted to do it again?”
Heat scorches straight up my neck.
For one stunned second, I can’t think at all. I genuinely believed I got away with it, mostly because he hadn’t said a word. Which, in retrospect, was foolish logic. Jack is sneaky like that.
I should have known he was saving it. Savoring it.
“That didn’t happen.”
“Mmm, yeah, it did. Don’t worry, though. Loads of people have gotten off to the same mental picture. My estimate’s in the hundreds, but I’m open to revising upward.”
I rub my temples. “Please stop talking.”
“You said no touching,” he says, and there’s a sharper edge to him now. “That’s not a normal boundary, freckles. That’s a panic response.”
“I’m being smart,” I insist. “I’m being strategic. This has to stay clean. It has to stay contained and amicable because if real feelings get in the way, it’s going to get even messier.”
He’s close enough that I can see the faint scar line on his knuckle. Close enough that I can see the tiredness in his eyes, tucked behind the easy swagger.
“You’re making rules because you can feel yourself slipping.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Bullshit. You’re not scared of me; you’re scared of yourself.”
I want to say something cutting. I want to end the conversation immediately. Instead, I open my mouth, and no sound comes out.
Jack’s expression shifts, the edge easing, replaced by something that looks uncomfortably like care. “I told you I’m not out to trap you,” he says. “I’m not going to corner you, either. And I’m certainly not going to touch you if you don’t want me to.”
My eyes burn, which is infuriating. “Then don’t.”
He takes a half step back, giving me room. “Okay. No touching.”
Relief flashes through me so fast it’s almost dizzying.
“But I’m not agreeing to no late-night talks or accidental flirting,” he adds. “That’s just my nature.”
I narrow my eyes. “That wasn’t negotiable.”
“You don’t get to have me marry you, live inside your house, and then ban me from being myself like I’m a dog you’re crate training.”
I laugh. “You absolutely are a dog.”
He points at me. “See, that’s flirting.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That is not flirting.”
“It is when you look like that.”
“I don’t look like anything!”
“Isla, baby.”
I should keep arguing. I should tell him to stop saying my name, like the shape of it belongs inside his ridiculous mouth.
Instead, I do the only thing that doesn’t require me to stay stuck inside my own skin.
I spin on my heel, march down the hall, and slam my bedroom door hard enough that a framed photo in the living room rattles.
From the other side, I hear him let out a low laugh.
Which is, honestly, unforgivable.