Chapter Twelve
THE LINE AT SWEET SPOT SNAKES OUT ONTO BAY STREET, A SLOW parade of sunburned tourists, golf carts, and locals waiting for recovery smoothies and green juices.
The place smells like ginger, mango, and espresso all at once.
Inside, the lime green paint feels like vacation, and Allie waves from a corner booth, two green smoothies and a banana monkey bowl waiting for me.
“Hi, Sleeping Beauty,” she greets as I slide onto the bench.
“Is it that obvious I just rolled out of bed?”
She laughs and nudges the bowl closer. “Years of experience. I’m just jealous of your flexibility. I’ve been up since five.”
“Oof,” I say, accepting the smoothie. “I owe you. Did you have fun last night?”
“Dear God, yes. I danced with my husband for the first time in months—in heels no less. It was basically a second honeymoon,” she says, eyes shining.
I smile, leaning back in the booth. “You were radiant.”
She fans herself. “I needed an excuse. Honestly, I’m kind of itching to dive back into the world.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Back to work?”
She nods, thoughtful. “Yeah. I miss the routine. Is that weird?”
“Not at all,” I say. “You’re allowed to want what you want.”
My phone buzzes. I look down.
Jack: Call me when you have a sec? Nothing big, just a question.
Allie’s eyes narrow. “You’re doing that thing with your shoulders.”
I force a smile and show her my screen.
She shrugs. “Jack hates typing. If it’s more than three words, he calls.”
I look back at the screen, frowning. “But with a caveat and a promise that it’s ‘nothing big?’”
She softens. “True. If he’s leading like that, it could be something.”
Silence lingers. Then she adds, “He probably just didn’t want to call this early.”
I glance at the clock. “It’s 9:20. Maybe he thought I was still asleep?”
“Maybe,” she murmurs, leaning closer. “You and Jack have been circling each other forever. Maybe it’s time.”
I stir the straw in my smoothie. “Time for what?”
“All in, or…,” she pauses, eyes steady, “…moving on.”
My heart beats a little faster. “I thought we settled that two years ago. Magical summer, summer ends. He returns to New York. I head home to Charleston. We fall apart.”
I catch her gaze, flickering with something unspoken. I know this is hard for her, too, stuck between her friend and her brother.
I release a breath. “Okay. I’ll call him.”
An hour later, I’m back home, idly doodling in Milly’s notebook while I wait for her to come by to talk through a few house things, when I decide to just get it over with and call Jack.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my tone easy as he picks up.
“Hey, Luce.” His voice is warm, though there’s something tentative tucked around the edges. “What are you up to?”
“I’m just waiting on Milly. She’s coming over to talk house stuff.”
“Dangerous combo,” he says lightly. “You two could level the place if you start making your lists.”
I laugh, pacing slow laps between the island and the counter. “I’ll try to restrain myself. I had breakfast with your sister this morning.”
“Yeah, she mentioned that,” he says, and I can practically hear the grin through the phone. “Said you went to Sweet Spot.” There’s a pause, then I hear a door close quietly on his end. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”
I stop pacing.
“Some clients of mine are here from New York. We’re grabbing drinks tonight. Would you want to come?”
“No pressure,” he adds quickly. “I just…thought you might like them, especially Chloe.”
His voice is careful. Hopeful, in that quiet Jack way that lands somewhere between awkward and adorable. Part of me wants to keep my distance. Say no. Remind myself I’m not his girlfriend anymore.
Instead. “Sure.”
Twenty minutes later Milly steps inside with her favorite straw hat and a folder tucked under her arm. “You’ve been busy,” she says, nodding toward the sketches spread across the table.
“I have a big day of painting ahead of me,” I say. “What’s on today’s house list?”
“The usual suspects.” She flips open the folder.
“The roof still needs patching. Jay should be coming this week. And we should probably deal with the loose tile on the back steps. Oh, and the vines around the arbor are threatening to take over again.” Milly scans her notes. “Anything you’ve noticed?”
“Just the beach gate latch,” I say, reaching for my water. “It’s jammed again, won’t close all the way.”
Milly frowns. “Really? It was fine this morning when I went down to the beach.”
“Huh. Maybe it’s just temperamental.”
She shrugs, already moving on to the next item. “Like everything else on this island.”
After she leaves, curiosity gets the better of me. I wander down the sandy path to the beach gate, expecting to still find it hanging by a thread. But when I test the latch, it clicks shut, easy and sure. At closer inspection, I see fresh oil gleaming faintly on the hinge.
Jack. Of course he did. I rest my hand on the wood, smiling despite myself.
At exactly 6:30, I hear the soft thump of his footsteps outside.
My breath catches as Jack steps into view on my porch, hair damp and slightly curled, wearing a soft pink linen shirt.
I try to shake away the thoughts of how good he looks as I step out into the warm air, but his chiseled jawline and broad shoulders are impossible to ignore.
He smiles, deep brown eyes flicking away from the curve of my shoulder where my dress drapes.
“You look beautiful,” he says easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Thanks,” I grin, lifting my chin. “You look freshly showered.”
His laugh is low. “That’ll go straight to my head.”
“You’ll never believe it,” I say with raised eyebrows, “but the beach gate is magically fixed.”
Jack runs his hand through his hair, eyes dropping away. “It was a quick fix.”
“I owe you one,” I say, meeting his eyes for longer than necessary.
The warm breeze lifts the hem of my green silk dress, and it dances across my upper thighs as he gestures for me to lead. Bougainville brushes my elbow as I pass through the front gate.
On our way through town, he tells me about the couple we’re meeting. His voice is relaxed but there’s excitement underneath it. “They’re nice. I’ve been working with them for a couple years. Chloe’s an author, mystery novels I think,” he says, glancing over at me.
We stop for a flock of roosters loudly crowing and crossing the road.
“You think she writes mysteries?” I tilt toward him, leaning into the question.
“Okay I know she does, but I haven’t read any of them,” he replies, eyes forward.
“Why does that not surprise me, Jack?” I tease, leaning my left elbow on the back of the seat between us as I turn toward him. “You still don’t read fiction?”
He leans toward me, that cheeky smile daring me to argue. “Numbers are more my thing, Luce.”
I flick his shoulder. “That’s not very well-rounded of you.”
He laughs. “I promise you this, if you pick up a finance book, I’ll read one of Chloe’s.”
I shake my head, still smiling. “I’m not falling for that.”
“Falling for what?”
“You’re trying to trap me into tax talk.”
He laughs as he parks in front of Rock House. The boutique hotel sits high above the bay, its white-trimmed shutters glowing in the late evening light. Inside, the terrace restaurant hums softly with low conversation and clinking glassware, part old-school supper club, part island hideaway.
We find a secluded lounge nook, a loveseat and a pair of striped rattan chairs angled toward the sea.
The breeze stirs the warm air scented with garlic, citrus, and something faintly floral from the garden below.
Beyond the balustrade, the harbor flickers with moored sailboats and the faint music drifting up from Dunmore Town.
It feels private here, a pocket of calm above the noise.
“So,” Jack says unhurriedly as he sits beside me on the loveseat. “How’s your new series coming?”
“Good, it’s finally starting to come together,” I say, aware of how close we’re sitting.
He nods confidently. “I knew it would. I want to see it.”
“You’d be surprised. I’m painting seascapes. I was never really drawn to them before, but now, I don’t know, it feels like exactly what I’m supposed to paint.”
“Does it help you feel connected to your grandmother?” he asks.
I pause, the idea hitting unexpectedly. “Maybe. I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
Of course he’d frame it that way. Jack has always had a knack for seeing straight through me, for naming the thing I’m circling before I’m ready to say it out loud. It’s dangerous how easily he still does it.
“Helen at the art gallery asked me to be a part of the summer show,” I say, my cheeks warming. “It’s going to be at Graham Vale’s estate.”
He looks up, his hand finding mine without thinking. “August, right? I wouldn’t miss it.”
I glance down at our hands, then back up at him, clearly caught off guard. He notices, too, his fingers loosening as he pulls back, something flickering across his face.
He grimaces slightly, like my surprise hurts him. “I stopped into the gallery a couple days ago and Helen mentioned it,” he explains.
“Aw, summer Jack,” I joke, elbowing him lightly in his side. “Has time for midday art gallery perusals and beach walks.”
He’s quiet, looking out toward the harbor. “It’s nice being here, you know? Slow pace, fresh air, roosters as my alarm clock.”
“You mean you haven’t missed the honking cabs?”
He lets out a breath that could almost be a laugh. “Definitely not.”
A flash of emotion clouds his eyes, and it’s clear there’s more he’s not saying. I open my mouth to ask, but at the last second pivot to a safer topic like the coward I am, launching into a story about Milly’s recent DIY mishap.
I’m leaning forward, giggling at Jack’s impression of his dad trying to figure out their internet when a well-dressed couple appears at the edge of our circle.
Jack stands immediately, flashing a grin as he pulls the man into a friendly handshake and leans in to air-kiss the woman’s cheeks.