Chapter Nineteen JACKIE #2
In simpler terms: get out of my house. Even though I do love nothing more than to annoy my big brother, I’ll let him have this one without a fight. And without pointing out that he’s the one who dragged me here.
Besides, it might be the perfect chance to get back behind the wheel. The road is quiet here. Shouldn’t be so hard.
“I’ll drive,” I let Adam know brightly, shooting him a smile.
His throat bobs as he stands, features strained. He’s about to push back, then reins himself in. What comes out is a forced, flat, “Sure.”
“Come on, I don’t drive that badly.”
Adam falters, rubbing his jaw. “I wasn’t suggesting that…”
I fold my arms, ready to stand my ground. “Come on. Say it.”
“Fine.” He sighs, fists planted on his hips. “Every time I’ve been in a car with you, I’ve seen my entire life flash before my eyes.”
I scoff and give him a look. “Dramatic.”
“Whenever I pass by 9th Street, I can still feel my stomach in my throat from when you clipped the curb and drove several feet with two wheels in the air.”
My shoulders drop despite myself. Maybe he’s right. I never had it in me.
Adam must see the shift in my confidence because he quickly adds, “Maybe you’ve got better at it. Let’s give it a try.”
I seize the opening. I’m not going to tell him I haven’t driven in over five years. “Can you guys take the other car?” I tell my security team with a grin. “Just in case.”
Adam mutters, “Glad you don’t have a problem having my blood on your hands.”
By the time we’re on the road, the unwilling passenger on my right is so tense, it’s almost funny. He doesn’t look like he’s breathing.
Watching the road intently, he doesn’t even complain about the snail’s pace as I crawl us out of the forest, the trees thinning as we ease onto the coastal highway. Finally, we drift onto Main Street, and the sheriff’s station comes into view.
Silver Lake Falls is bustling with tourists, every storefront bursting with color and chatter. The season is in full swing, and I didn’t even realize. Maybe Carter was on to something.
The relieved exhale Adam lets out when I pull into the station parking lot is borderline offensive. I’d be insulted if it weren’t for how hard he clearly tried not to burst my bubble. Which, to be honest, was kind of adorable.
Inside, a couple of sunburnt tourists crowd one of the deputies’ desks, complaining about the price of the lobster they had earlier.
The poor man in uniform rubs his temples, fighting to keep his professionalism while explaining he can’t go and arrest the owner of the restaurant for “daylight robbery”.
“Miss Rawlings,” a deep voice calls from the office in the back of the room. “Is something the matter?”
We leave the lobster drama behind and cross the bullpen toward a very confused Sheriff Walker. Adam’s hand presses on my lower back, and my thoughts scatter like dandelion fluff.
Two minutes later, we’re back on the busy sidewalk, squinting under the blistering sun, empty-handed. My brother is so going to pay for this.
JACKIE: Mysteriously, the sheriff doesn’t have any new intel for you.
CARTER: Must’ve misunderstood his message.
JACKIE: How odd. ??
CARTER: It happens to the best of us. Take the opportunity to see more of the town. See you at dinner.
“We’re officially dismissed until dinner.” I show Adam the text, and he starts laughing.
As I glance down the street at the buzz of people milling about, a pang of jealousy hits me. “I wish I could walk around without the security detail. I just want to blend in for once.”
“I have an idea,” he says, stepping aside to exchange a few words with Patrick, who doesn’t look too happy, but nods.
“Done. They’ll hang back a few feet. Come on, let’s get you a lobster hat from that shop over there.” His hand closes over mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My heart leaps up into my throat. “What are you doing?”
“You want to be incognito, right?” he says with a wicked tilt of his mouth. “You’ll look less like you’re in witness protection without the guards flanking you if we’re just a regular couple.”
“Is this your idea of help?”
Adam tips his head closer, lowering his voice. “Isn’t it what friends do?”
That damn word again. Friends.
“How generous,” I deadpan. “How will I ever repay you?”
Despite my efforts, I sound breathless. If this is his idea of being friendly, I don’t know if I’m going to survive it.
“You can get lunch.” Adam winks, utterly unbothered, tugging me into the sea of people.
We take a detour through the harbor, where the water shimmers under the bright sunlight, and colorful sailboats line the docks, bobbing lazily in the breeze. The freedom of being invisible among the wandering tourists hums under my skin.
It’s shockingly easy to forget someone out there still wants to hurt me.
I breathe in the salty air and the scent of lobster rolls, cheeks warming under Adam’s amused gaze, his hand still securely wrapped around mine.
A couple of hours later, my stomach decides to cash in on the promise of food. And it’s loud about it. “We passed an Italian place on the other side of Main Street?”
The corner of Adam’s lips quirks. “I was joking about lunch.”
Is it weird I’m nervous about going to a restaurant with him? It’s not a date.
“We’re banned from going back home. Besides,” I add, trying to sound casual, “do you want to spend the rest of the day with me running on low blood sugar?”
He smiles in that way that steals my breath away, and the heavy cloud inside my chest presses harder. “I’ll let Patrick know.”
My favorite bodyguard is already waiting for us, arms crossed, outside the ivy-covered restaurant, next to the old wooden doors.
Adam unbuckles and observes Patrick through the windshield. “That spells trouble.”
He’s all scowls when we reach him. “I don’t like it.”
The lightness evaporates, letting worry rush in. “Do you think they might be here?”
“Um. No.” He’s unusually shifty. “It’s just…bad vibes.”
The use of the word “vibes” by a man drier than a stale crouton should be worrisome. But as I glance through the window at the cozy round tables and a few booths lining the walls, I don’t see the problem. “Looks like a nice place. Harmless,” I say.
Adam opens the door and I step in behind him.
The restaurant looks so authentically Italian that you’d forget you’re in Maine.
Warm brick walls and terracotta floors, complete with wrought-iron lights, remind me of the summer in Tuscany, one of the rare holidays we all went on as a family when I was little.
Unlike those Mediterranean restaurants, though, this one is completely empty. Besides the three men in suits tucked around a table in the back corner, who raise their heads in perfect, unsettling unison.
“This is great,” I say lightly. “No crowds. Relax, have some wine.”
“I’m going to have a stroke if you keep ignoring my advice,” Patrick mumbles on his way to one of the tables.
Adam pulls out a chair two tables over from a very tense-looking Patrick and his unfortunate partner-of-the-day. As I slide into my seat, he leans in and murmurs, “He looks like he’s about five seconds from popping a vein.”
“They’ve been too stressed with everything going on. He sees danger everywhere.”
Adam’s gaze sharpens on the men behind me. “Maybe he’s got a point. We could eat anywhere else.”
Before I can point out he’s usually the laid back one, a guy in a pinstriped suit appears next to us, looming over our table. The huge gold ring on his pinkie catches the dim light as he sizes up my security detail.
The man greets us, the Italian accent heavy-handed. “What you guys want to eat?”
Maybe this is like one of those old-school family restaurants where you don’t get a menu. “Do you have a special of the day?” I venture to ask.
“Mà,” our dandy-looking waiter bellows toward the swinging doors in the back. “Avemu quarchi cosa pi manciari pi sta genti?[1]”
An ancient-looking woman, dressed in black, pops her head out and starts yelling back in Italian.
“We have caponata e… arancini[2],” he says, waving toward the kitchen, but our input is not required because he continues, “Same for your friends, si?[3]”
We don’t argue.
“Well…this is off to a great start,” Adam snorts, looking at the old photos on the walls and the dried herbs hanging from some of the dark beams framing the bar.
All the ease of the past week evaporates, leaving an awkward silence in its wake.
It doesn’t last long because a minute later, the man returns and places a smaller red satin tablecloth over the white one. Then a rose in a little crystal vase. And a candle. He lights it without a word, the light flickering across his features.
Uneasiness twists in my limbs, the tip of my shoe tapping an uncontrollable rhythm on the ceramic floor.
It’s too romantic.
The suggestion stings like salt in an open wound.
Adam’s grin, however, spreads wider by the second.
It helps ease some of the panic, and I slowly relax enough to see the humor in the situation.
By the time romantic Italian music starts playing from the speakers, I’m biting my lip until tears sting to suppress the laugh building at the base of my throat.
It doesn’t help that Adam is pressing his knuckles against his mouth, breathing slowly through his nose.
I draw in a steadying breath, just enough to speak without choking. “I bet a romantic date wasn’t what you expected out of this lunch.”
“Does it bother you?” Adam asks, his tone cautious, like he’s testing thin ice.
It probably should, given our history. But it feels…good. Almost normal. “Honestly, it’s been so long since I’ve been on a date, I’ll take it.”
Something like relief ghosts his features, but I’d be stupid to read anything into it. Even though he’s broken point one of our deal more than once recently.
No touching.
I’d be lying if I said I wanted him to stop.
“Remember when you took me to that fancy restaurant outside the city?” he asks.
I blink, surprised he’d bring that date up. “Yeah, they had incredible duck.”
“I kept using the wrong forks,” he says, letting out a short, bitter laugh. “Kept knocking the glasses over.”
The image of us acting like grown-ups among all the stiff figures around the restaurant still makes my chest warm.
Adam’s gaze drifts to the bar, its shelves lined with different shapes of bottles. “It was so glaringly obvious I wasn’t supposed to be there.”
I frown. What is he talking about? I only remember how hard we tried not to laugh, until my vision blurred from holding it in.
Before I get to remind him of that, he veers off course suddenly.
He glances at me, irritation leaking through his voice. “Didn’t Sir William take you out on dates?”
“Oh, no.” The little vase between us is cool under my fingertips. “There weren’t any dates.”
More like a convenient arrangement. A relationship of opportunity for a while. I didn’t need to be wined and dined before we both got what we wanted.
“Why?” Adam presses, gaze sharp. “He looked like he’d already picked out the names of your future children.”
“Are you asking as a concerned friend?”
“I’m curious,” Adam says, too casually. “Why would you say no to the life you’ve always wanted? Or is running away just part of your MO?”
The words stab me straight in the chest like an ice shard. Thankfully, the “waiter” arrives, slamming two plates of eggplant stew in front of us with a brisk “Mangia, mangia![4]”
Technically, he hasn’t breached the truce. This one’s on me. I should’ve bargained for point four. No bringing up the past.
We eat in brittle silence through the next dish, which I quietly pray is the last.
Come to think of it, I’d rather stuff my face than let loose what’s been burning on the tip of my tongue.
Like: What about your dates, Adam? Is there any single woman in New York who hasn’t seen the inside of your bedroom?
“Jackie.” He places the silverware neatly on the plate, voice low. “I still worry about you.”
My pulse spikes, but I keep my smile placid. “You’ve mentioned. Wouldn’t want Carter to stress about his little sister too much.”
He frowns. Then leans forward, across the small table, reaching for my hand. “That’s not what I—”
Like I needed another sign from the universe to step back, the old lady bursts through the swinging doors, clapping her leathery hands together. “All good?”
I point to the wiped-clean plate. “Delicious, thank you.”
“Moment”, she says, lifting one thin wrinkly finger. She comes back with more stuffed fried rice balls in a to-go box. And a bottle of wine.
“Oh, thank you. How much do I—” Adam asks, taking out his wallet.
The woman shakes her head, no strand of her white hair out of place. “You no pay. Goodbye.”
Adam tries again. “But—”
“No, no.” She’s unwavering, looking like she runs the show around here. “Eat food, drink vino, make babies. Ciao!”
She swirls toward the kitchen, barking something in Italian at the three men, and our pinstriped “waiter” waves, a wolfish smile exposing his very white teeth.
We’re too confused to protest and stagger out into the sunlight, dazed, with Patrick’s grumbles trailing behind us. “Good thing nobody got shot.”
Inside the car, Adam and I stare at each other.
“Was that—”
“Definitely a mafia front,” we say at the same time and burst out laughing.
This whole day has been so weird and fun. I let it all out, wiping my lashes, until I’m spent.
When he finally catches his breath, Adam says, “Let’s take these goodies to Carter and Eliza. Maybe they’ll get started on that baby.”
The longing slams into me like a punch, so sharp, my ribcage feels like it might splinter.
Against every shred of better judgment, and through the muffled echoes of everything he’s broken in me…
I still want the food, and wine…and babies.
With him.