9. Jack
Chapter 9
Jack
I sprawl on the plush leather couch, my feet dangling over the armrest, staring at the exposed brick ceiling of my loft apartment. The soft glow from the industrial-style floor lamp casts long shadows across the room, mirroring the whirlwind of thoughts in my mind.
It's been days since the dinner at Anna and Peter's, but I can't shake the memory of Jennifer's face—the hurt, the anger, and that flicker of something else.
My fingers drum restlessly on my thigh as I replay our conversation in the garden for the hundredth time. The vulnerability in her eyes when she admitted her fears, the way she leaned into my touch before pulling away. It took everything in me not to pull her close, to kiss away her doubts.
But I meant what I said. I'll wait. She's worth waiting for.
I sit up, running a hand through my hair, my gaze drifting to the framed photos on the industrial pipe shelving unit. Snapshots of my life—Mom and John’s wedding, Honey’s graduation, the kids from the youth center. But no Jennifer. Not yet.
What if she never comes? What if I've blown my chance?
I stand up, stretching my arms above my head until my back cracks. The sound echoes in the quiet apartment. I pace, my bare feet padding against the cool hardwood floors.
Jennifer's words echo in my mind, her voice soft and broken as she explained why she disappeared that night at the club.
“I saw you with her, Jack. You called her Honey.”
I groan, shaking my head. Honey. Of course. My stepsister's brazen nature strikes again.
I can picture it now—Jennifer seeing Honey, all legs and attitude, sauntering up to me with that mischievous glint in her eye.
I mutter a curse under my breath, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged space. “Damn it, Honey.”
My stepsister's always had a knack for stirring up trouble, even when she's not trying.
A bitter chuckle escapes my lips as I make my way to the kitchen area. The gleaming stainless steel appliances reflect my distorted image as I reach for a glass.
Here I am, Jack Daniels, pouring myself a glass of water when what I really want is something stronger, as I'm pining after a woman who thinks I'm some kind of player because my stepsister's name is Honey.
It's like a bad joke, the kind you'd hear in a dive bar after one too many shots.
I flop back onto the couch, the leather creaking beneath me as I throw an arm over my eyes. “Christ, what a mess.”
My mind drifts to the day my mom told me.
“Jack,” she'd said, her voice soft. “I want you to meet someone special.”
And there he was, standing in our living room—tall, distinguished, with a kind smile that reached his eyes. John Daniels, widower and father to a spitfire of a daughter named Honey.
I snort, remembering my first thought after they got married: "Great, now I'm a walking liquor advertisement.”
It wasn't until later, when the shock had worn off and I saw how happy my mom was, that I realized John was exactly what our family needed. He became the father I'd lost too young, and Honey... well, she became the pain-in-the-ass little sister I never knew I wanted.
“Jack and Honey Daniels,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Sounds like a damn cocktail menu.”
I can almost hear Honey's voice in my head, that familiar mix of sass and affection. "Oh, lighten up, big brother. At least we're top shelf."
A grin tugs at my lips despite myself. That's Honey for you—always ready with a quip, even in my imagination.
I shake my head, a rueful smile playing on my lips. But the amusement fades as quickly as it came, replaced by a gnawing ache in my chest. None of this matters if Jennifer won't give me a chance.
I sit up, suddenly restless. I need to do something, anything, to get out of my own head. Maybe I should call Honey and ask her to talk to Jennifer. But no, that would probably make things worse. Honey's not exactly known for her tact.
I walk over to the window, watching the city bustle below. Jennifer and I—we’re both damaged goods. Scared of what we feel, of what we could be. But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe it means we’ll fight harder for what we have.
If we have anything at all.
My forehead rests against the cool glass, my breath fogging up the pane. I close my eyes, remembering the way Jennifer looked at me during dinner. There was a moment, just a fleeting second, when our eyes met across the table. The candlelight flickered in her hazel eyes, and I saw a mix of emotions there—anger, hurt, but also a hint of longing. It was like she was fighting against herself, wanting to believe in me but too scared to take the risk.
The memory shifts.
Suddenly I'm back in Anna and Peter's garden, the cool night air nipping at my skin. Jennifer's voice, soft and vulnerable, echoes in my mind:
“I'm scared,” she had whispered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I'm scared of letting someone in again, of being vulnerable. What if I'm wrong about you?”
The raw honesty in her voice had hit me like a punch to the gut. I wanted nothing more than to wrap her in my arms, to promise her that I'd never hurt her. But I knew that words alone wouldn't be enough. Not for Jennifer.
I open my eyes, the weight of her fear settling on my shoulders. I understand her hesitation, her need to protect herself. Hell, I've been there myself.
We're both walking wounded, carrying the scars of past betrayals. But where I see a chance for healing, for something real and lasting, Jennifer sees a risk. A threat to the careful life she's rebuilt.
I run a hand through my hair, frustration and determination warring within me. I need to find a way to show her that what we have is worth the risk—that I’m not Felix, or any other man who’s hurt her in the past. That I’m here, I’m real, and I’m not going anywhere.
But how do I prove this to her?
I push away from the window, my fingers raking through my hair for the umpteenth time tonight. I'm sure I look a mess, but who's here to see?
I stride across the room, past the sleek kitchen island and the unused dining table, my fingers itching to grab my phone from where it sits on the brushed metal coffee table. To call Peter and beg for her number. Just to hear her voice, to know she's okay.
But I promised her space and time. I've got to let her come to me when she's ready.
But what if she's never ready?
A sharp knock on the door jolts me from my spiral, the sound echoing off the high ceilings.
Who could it be?
The sharp rap on the door comes again, more insistent this time.
“Coming, coming,” I mutter, running a hand through my disheveled hair. It's probably Honey, to complain about her latest boy drama. As much as I love my stepsister, I'm not in the mood for her antics tonight.
I reach for the doorknob, already preparing my lecture. “Honey, I swear to God if you're here to—”
The words die on my lips as I yank the door open.