Chapter Twenty-Seven
LAZY DAISY IS BUZZING. LAUGHTER SPILLS FROM THE OPEN French doors.
Bougainvillea sways in the breeze, framing the porch in a riot of pink.
The scent of grilled fish and lime hangs in the air as Jack flips grouper over the flame, a dish towel tossed over his shoulder like he’s been doing this his whole life.
He kind of has, I think, watching him from the kitchen window as I top off a pitcher of rum punch. Or at least, the version of his life that leads back here. To me. To us.
“Your man is really committing to the grill aesthetic,” Dawn says, sliding up beside me with a stack of mismatched woven placemats. “Is he wearing a linen apron?”
“It’s mine,” I wink, carrying the pitcher out to the back patio.
The long table is lit by candles flickering in old glass hurricanes, with platters of sliced mango, grilled corn, Allie’s orzo salad, and tortillas for the fish tacos.
Thomas, Dinah, Allie, and Drew are barefoot on the grass, playing a game of bocce.
Sloane’s taking candid videos of the table and narrating them like she’s shooting a travel diary.
“Hey, Luce,” Jack calls, raising his tongs. “Can I steal you for a grill consultation?”
I cross the patio, weaving through a tangle of coolers. “Do you really need a second opinion, or are you just flirting with your sous chef?”
He grins. “Both,” he whispers as he leans down and kisses me.
I lean in, brushing my hand along his waist as I peek at the grill. “Perfect char.”
“I aim to please.” He drops his voice next to my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
Dinah interrupts with a shouted request for Jack’s playlist. He hands over his phone, and I wander back to the table, pulse fluttering.
The golden hour casts everything in that dreamy, pinky peach light that makes even the bug spray bottles look romantic.
Jack returns with a fresh platter, dropping a kiss on the tip of my nose before setting it down.
After the plates are cleared and the sky fades all dark and sparkly, Jack pulls me to my feet just as Billie Holiday croons from the speakers. We sway barefoot on the lawn, slow and close, the grass cool beneath our toes.
“You’re humming,” he says into my hair, barely loud enough to hear.
I smile against his chest. “I always do when I’m happy.”
The moment stretches, quiet and perfect, until Sloane’s voice cuts across the yard.
“Group photo! Before anyone leaves or sobs!” she shouts, already propping her phone against a pitcher.
Everyone groans but scrambles together. Thomas throws Sloane up on his shoulders, her laugh echoing as she strikes pageant poses.
Dinah grabs a candle from the table and holds it above her head like the Statue of Liberty in a silk slip dress.
Dawn slides beside me at the last second, slinging an arm around my shoulders.
Someone trips over a cooler. Someone else starts singing off key. We’re golden with rum and sun and the kind of friendship that’s been earned over decades, leaning in like we always have, like we always will.
Jack slips his arms around my waist just before the shutter clicks, where he’s always belonged.