Chapter 22 Isla
TWENTY-TWO
ISLA
Jack is waiting for me in the parking lot with his hands in his jacket pockets, rocking back on his heels. He looks nervous and out of place, a little bit like a toddler on their first day of preschool.
I should find it funny, shouldn’t I? It is humorous, technically. The kind of thing you can laugh at in the moment if you’re not already running on fumes and adrenaline and the lingering thrum of club music in your bones.
Tonight, I find it strangely endearing.
I’ve changed in record time, which is to say I threw on my jeans and a dark silk top.
My hair is still damp at the roots from a sink rinse and a prayer.
I smell faintly of coconut lotion, sweat, and that vanilla honey scent we circulate to convince everyone they’re having an elevated experience inside.
Jack turns when the door clicks behind me. His gaze hits me and holds, taking inventory. Not in the way the patrons do, hungry and entitled. His looking always feels different, annoyingly so.
“Thought I might have gotten stood up again.”
He pushes away from his truck, walking toward me.
“I’m sorry, Jack.”
His brows lift. “For what, exactly?”
“For the mix-up. For the fact that you drove all the way here to pick me up for drinks and I forgot time exists.” I swallow, then add, “My friend Simone called out. Manager needed coverage. It turned into a whole thing.”
“Is she okay?”
“I don’t know.” And I hate that I don’t. Simone is the kind of person who shows up no matter what. “Maris just said it was family stuff.”
“You checked in?”
“I’m about to.”
I lift my phone like proof that I’m still capable of being a decent friend and not the kind of person who gets so swallowed by her own problems that she forgets about everyone else.
He tips his head and holds my gaze. He looks fine. More than fine, actually, which feels irritating under the circumstances.
There’s that mole on his cheek, the earring in his left ear. His hair is a mess, long enough now to curl at the ends. I like it better this way. Better than the sharp blond phase, and better than the old mullet, too.
I’m feeling off-kilter as I wait, braced for him to say something about what he saw inside. Anything. A joke, a tease, a pointed comment that makes me want to throw my phone at his chest. Maybe even something flattering that I can pretend I hate and secretly keep.
He says nothing at all.
And it’s ridiculous how disappointed I feel about it. I mentally slap myself before my face can do something embarrassing, like crumple or cry.
“You’re not speaking. It’s weird.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m being obedient.”
I rear back. “What does that mean?”
“You told me I’m not allowed to share my opinion. That’s the only reason. Trust me, there’s a whole hell of a lot I would say if I could.”
My pulse trips.
I shouldn’t enjoy the idea of Jack having words locked behind his teeth because of a rule I made in a moment of panic. I shouldn’t enjoy the suggestion that he’s sitting on something hot and dangerous and mine to unwrap if I stop being a coward about it.
I unlock my phone and stare at it because that’s the safest option.
“I’m just gonna check in with my friend,” I say, waving the device between us.
Isla
You okay? Maris said family stuff. I covered your set. Missed you. Let me know if you need anything.
Jack shifts. “You two close?”
I tuck my phone away. “Yeah.”
“Hmm.”
“What?” I squint at him. “I can’t have friends? You think I’m an ice statue who only speaks in budgets and threats?”
His mouth curves. “I wasn’t going to say all that.”
“Mmm, what were you going to say, then?”
He gives me that look he’s been giving me lately, the one that says he knows me too well to let me get away with deflecting forever. It’s infuriating. It’s also a little hard to meet for too long.
“I was going to say it must be good to have people outside Blue Willow you can talk to.”
I lift my chin. “Simone’s good. We’re good. She never asks me to be less of myself. She hands me a donut and tells me to buck the fuck up.”
He hums. “Sounds familiar.”
I glare. “You are not Simone.”
“No,” he agrees. “But we have both seen you naked more than once, so that’s something.”
I bark out a laugh. “Okay, first of all, fuck off.” The words come easily, but the guilt follows right behind them. “Second of all . . . if I tell you something, will you promise not to get mad?”
He folds his arms. “Never a great start.”
“Simone knows . . . about us. Our deal with this marriage thing.”
His eyes go wide. “You told her?”
“I know we said we wouldn’t tell anyone, and I really did mean to keep it just between us. But back then, everything was so tense. Simone’s not exactly the town gossip. She’s safe. She’s neutral. And she’s never pushed me on it, not once.”
“Okay.”
I was expecting a fight. At the very least, a wounded little speech. Maybe some theatrical offense I’d have to talk him down from.
“That’s it?”
He shrugs. “You needed someone. I get that. I’m not thrilled about it, but I’m not mad.”
Relief loosens something tight in my chest.
We stand there for another second without moving. The night is warm and thick, full of honeysuckle and back-alley cigarette smoke. A lethal combination for bad ideas.
My brain offers one anyway. Jack pinning me against the side of the truck, crowding in close, telling me every filthy thought he had while I was on that stage under the purple lights. The two of us finally burning through all this tension instead of dragging it around like a second skin.
I shut that thought down so hard it almost makes me dizzy.
Finally, Jack asks, “Are we still going for a drink?”
A fresh wave of embarrassment rolls through me, half because of the question, half because of where my mind just went with it.
“I don’t think I should,” I say quietly. “It’s late. I’ve got deliveries tomorrow.”
He takes a step back. “Got it. No worries.”
“Or . . .” I say before I can stop myself. “We should, shouldn’t we? You didn’t come all the way here just for a peep show.”
“In the interest of keeping my opinion to myself, I’ll refrain from commenting on the fact that you just called that once-in-a-lifetime performance a peep show.”
I roll my eyes, but it doesn’t land with the bite I intend. My body is still humming. I can still feel the stage lights on my skin, the music in my bones, the heavy attention that never quite washes off until I’m in my own bed with the door shut.
A once-in-a-lifetime performance. If that’s not the most validating, oddly romantic thing I’ve heard, I don’t know what is.
“You know what I meant.”
He grins. “Come on, I’ve got a good spot in mind. I’ll drive.”
I should double down. Go home, lock my door, drink water, and sleep like a person who has to get up before sunrise to deal with temperamental trees and a grant that can still disappear.
Instead, I follow him.
I’m tired of being good. I’m tired of treating joy like it’s bait. The night feels too charged to waste on another round of pretending I’m fine, and I’d really like to have a drink with my friend (read: fake husband) to wind down.
He opens the passenger door for me.
The cab smells like sawdust and clean laundry and the citrus soap he bought for my kitchen. There’s a bottle of water in the cup holder and a tape measure on the dash. It’s practical chaos. Jack’s brand.
He shuts my door, walks around the front, and slides behind the wheel. “I’ll grab your Jeep tomorrow,” he says, starting the engine. “I’ll take the bus into the city.”
“That’s ridiculous. That would be way too much trouble.”
“It’s not,” he says. “It’s about the least big deal in the world.”
Jack has a deeply warped sense of scale. Offering me money, marrying me, seeing me naked twice in one month. Somehow, all of it fits inside his definition of no big deal.
“If you say so,” I grumble.
He glances at me, amused. “I do.”
He pulls out of the parking lot with one hand on the wheel and the other resting loose on the console between us.
It makes me hyperaware of where my own hands are, which is outrageous, because I’ve lived in my body for nearly thirty years now.
I shouldn’t be this easily derailed by a man’s fingers existing in open air.
“Listen,” I say, “I want to be clear that this is just one drink.”
“It’s nearly two in the morning, freckles,” he replies. “If I drink two fancy cocktails this late, I’m going to be up the rest of the night with heartburn and shame.”
“That sounds like a personal issue.”
“It’s a family legacy,” he says gravely. “The Rhodes men are delicate.”
I snort, and I hate that the sound comes out soft instead of sharp. I stare out the window at the empty streetlights, at the smear of storefronts sliding by, and try to pull myself back into my own lane.
“So, where are we going?”
“Somewhere good,” he says. “Somewhere I can bet you’ve never been before.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He smiles. “You’ll like it.”
I should ask if it’s expensive. I should ask if I can wear jeans in there. I should ask if we’re about to walk into a place where I’m going to stick out like a muddy boot in a bridal boutique.
Instead, I sit there with my knee angled toward him, my hands folded in my lap, and I let him take me wherever he wants.
We park outside a building that looks closed, which is immediately suspicious. There’s no sign or lights in the windows. There’s only a narrow black door tucked between a boutique and a restaurant I’ve only ever driven past on my way to work.
Jack kills the engine. “Trust me on this one.”
“That usually means I shouldn’t,” I say, but I’m already unbuckling.
Inside, the bar is all dark wood and amber light, the booths half-hidden in shadow. Music hums somewhere under the conversation, low enough that no one has to lean in and shout over it. After Luxe, the place feels almost unnervingly civilized.