Chapter 7
Monday couldn’t come soon enough. Jake’s mental countdown clock activated the second Georgia agreed to be his escort.
They’d agreed to meet in Pine Village, but he had other plans.
Plans that included her locked in his car while he peppered her with questions.
With the distance they’d have to drive, he’d get the answers he was looking for.
Not to mention, it was a great way to throw her off guard and watch those walls of hers drop. If only for a few minutes, so he could see the truth in her eyes when he asked her why, after he’d confessed his feelings, she had ghosted him.
He planned on getting there at ten, but he was ready at nine and, rather than making dents from pacing his hardwood floor, he’d hopped in the car and headed to her place.
He was shocked that they only lived fifteen minutes apart. Sure, he lived in the gated community with a private golf course and she was in an older, more historic part of town, but somehow they’d ended up on the same side of Austin.
As he pulled up to the curb, gentle snowflakes clung to his windshield, but not enough to block the view.
He couldn’t help but smile at the cute 1940s bungalow with a manicured flower garden, bright blue shutters, and a Christmas wreath on the door.
Very Georgia. Well, the Georgia he knew from years past. Not the uptight boardroom barracuda who’d shown up at the track the other week.
Jake shut off the engine, hopped out of his car and, holding the lapels of his coat together to block the frigid wind, made the slow march up to the door. He smoothed his hair and gave a quick breath check, then knocked.
A few seconds turned into thirty and then a minute. He was about to knock again when the door swung open and, Christ almighty, he hadn’t expected this Georgia. Silky robe, fresh face, sleep rumpled hair. Did he mention the bare feet?
He loved a sexy pair of bare feet—and Georgia had beautiful ones.
“Can I help you?” she chimed, and he knew the minute she figured out who her visitor was because her lips folded into a thin line and her eyes narrowed into two pissed-off slits. “What are you doing here?”
“Figured that we’d carpool. Save the planet and all.”
“My car is electric.”
“Good thing I came then. No charge stations in Pine Village.” His eyes traveled all the way south. “Nice toes. Passion Pink?”
She curled her them under so that they were only partially showing. “Perv.”
“I like to call it being a connoisseur.”
“I remember.”
He rested a shoulder against the doorjamb. “What else do you remember?”
“Enough that I should slam the door in your face.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You’re mine for the whole week. That was a non-negotiable.”
“Correction: I am your assistant for the whole week. And that week starts at your grandparents’.”
“Again. Electric car.”
He could tell she wanted to stomp a foot. “I’ll rent a gas-powered one.”
Knowing his prim-and-proper ex hated to be late for anything, let alone stand someone up, he said, “My grandparents expect us for lunch.”
Heat bloomed across her face, and her composure took a coffee break. “Why did you tell them that?”
“Because I want to spend as much time with them as I can.” He left out the part where, on some twisted level, he wanted to spend as much time with her as he could.
Sure, it was asking for trouble, but trouble had always been his favorite flavor.
She narrowed her eyes, weighing his words like a dodgy sales pitch. “Does that line work for you?”
“I don’t know, you tell me. I’m not the one blushing.”
She gave him side eye that said she wasn’t buying a single syllable. “It’s called anger. Now, as you can see, I’m not ready.”
He pushed off the wall. “I can wait.”
“Your call.”
She went to shut the door in his face when he stuck his foot in the jamb. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“There’s a bench right there.” She looked at the white wrought iron bench on her porch that had garland and twinkle lights wrapped around it, and back to him. “Get comfortable.”
“That’s not very neighborly of you.”
“I’m not feeling very neighborly.” Her gaze sharpened, the human equivalent of a lie detector test. “Wait, how did you know where I lived?”
“I have a friend who has a friend. It’s amazing what box seats to the Cowboys can do.”
“Jane,” she mumbled.
“Now, since we’ve established how I got here, can I come in?”
She held open the door, but not before sighing as if her world was ending.
Jake entered the house and took it all in. It was warm and cozy and smelled like cinnamon and vanilla with a hint of lavender—it smelled like Georgia. Without being obvious, he took a deep breath.
“Did you just smell my house?” she asked.
“You’re making your famous waffles.”
“Made and consumed.”
“You’re saying there’s none left?” She went quiet. “Remember, you are a terrible liar.”
She considered her options, and he saw the moment she decided he was right. “As long as you stay in the kitchen while I get ready.”
He tapped his watch. “Times a-tickin’.”
She ignored him and headed down the hallway. He took a moment to appreciate the swing of her hips. It was more confident, more deliberate, than when they’d been in college.
Jake found his way to the kitchen and his mouth watered at the warm scent of home cooking.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something so decadent.
He was on a strict food regimen to ensure he was in prime condition.
Then again, he was off for the next two weeks.
Maybe he could splurge for half of that time.
It wasn’t like his grandma was going to let him skip her famous gravy and blue-ribbon buttermilk biscuits.
Jake walked straight to the island and picked up the waffle. No plate, no syrup, he just took a bite.
Holy hell, it tasted even better than he remembered. Sweet, crunchy, and with a hint of cinnamon. He polished it off in under a minute and went in for seconds. He could have had a third, but he knew she was going to freeze it for a later date.
Not sure what else to do, he rummaged through the drawers until he found a plastic bag for the waffle. Sealed tightly, he put it in the freezer, then listed his options. He could sit at the table like a good guest, or he could peruse the house to get a glimpse into the girl who’d become a woman.
The front room looked like it had stepped straight out of a glossy 1940s magazine—cheery yellow walls trimmed with white molding, an antique couch, and a pair of wingback chairs that finished the vibe.
Above the mantel, beneath a dreamy landscape painting, sat a parade of framed photos, chronicling her brother’s life from squishy newborn to full-grown troublemaker.
Jake remembered the first time he’d met Connor. Georgia had wanted to introduce the two of them, and he’d had a hard time saying no to her.
He hadn’t planned on staying long. He was a twenty-year-old, cocky, Formula 2 driver and convinced Sunday dinners were for people with nine-to-fives, not up-and-coming drivers with sponsors to impress.
But Georgia had insisted, so there he was — helmet hair and all — carrying a box of overpriced pastries as a peace offering.
“Be nice,” Georgia murmured as she opened the front door.
“I’m always nice,” he muttered, which earned him a snort.
The kid in the living room looked up from a spread of car magazines, brown eyes narrowing as if assessing his competition.
Eleven, all elbows and curiosity, with a mop of hair sticking up like he’d forgotten a comb existed.
Jake noticed the wheelchair — of course he did — but it was the way Connor sat in it, like it was just another seat in the house, that stuck with him.
“So you’re him,” Connor said. “The guy who nearly clipped the guardrail in Monza last season.”
Jake blinked. “I stuck the turn.”
“Barely,” Connor shot back. “You were half a degree from eating gravel.”
Georgia groaned. “Connor…”
But Jake just grinned, dropping onto the couch across from him. “Half a degree’s the difference between champions and spectators.”
“Good thing I’m not a spectator then,” Connor said, tapping a sketchbook full of hand-drawn track layouts. “I’ve got my own designs. Gonna build the perfect circuit one day.”
They spent the rest of the evening trading barbs and debating tire strategy.
Jake explained the physics of oversteer; Connor countered with a theory about cornering that made Jake rethink his own line.
By the time Georgia returned with coffee, the two of them were hunched over the sketchbook, arguing about pit stop windows like old teammates.
When they finally left, Georgia slipped her hand into his and smiled. “You didn’t have to spend the whole time with him, you know.”
Jake glanced back at Connor, who was waving from the porch, sketchbook balanced on his lap. “Didn’t have to,” he said quietly. “But I think he gets it — the part of me no one else does.”
Shaking off the memory, Jake ran down the photos until the collection ended, the last photo a bittersweet reminder of a chapter closed far before its time.
Just the whisper of Connor caused a dull ache to settle behind his ribs. God, that kid was something else. Special. Brave. Just like his sister.
Speaking of Georgia, at the sound of her boots on the wood floor, he turned around to find her dragging what could only be described as the entire luggage section of a high-end department store. Three roller bags, two duffels, a garment bag, and something that suspiciously resembled a hat box.
Only, his attention was fried when she stepped out of the shadow, because—God bless his luck—she’d dressed to impress.
Dressed in a pair of hip-hugging leggings, a fuzzy green sweater that dropped off one shoulder, showing a hint of black lace beneath, she was a walking wet dream. He’d bet his championship that she was trying to punish him for blindsiding her. Little did she know he liked to be punished.
Almost as much as he liked toes.
Jake leaned against the fireplace mantel and let her see the spark of amusement—and something else—in his eyes. “We going on a week road trip or relocating to another time zone?”
“Some of us like to be prepared,” she said, popping the handle on her largest suitcase with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Prepared?” He arched a brow. “For what? Zombie apocalypses? Random royal weddings?”
Georgia set the suitcase down with a thud that rattled his nerves more than his race car’s suspension. “You say that now, but what if there’s a sudden cold snap? Or an unexpected heat wave? Or… you show up to a gala in flip-flops?”
Jake laughed, reaching for the largest bag—the one that was nearly as big as Georgia. “This one’s for your toothbrush, right?”
“Nope,” she shot back, yanking it from him. “Emergency shoe kit.”
His gaze slid lower. “Emergency shoe kit? Georgia, are we driving to the Pacific Ocean or just the mountains?”
“You never know when strappy heels, flats, and combat boots will come in handy. Fashion is situational,” she said, a faint edge creeping into her tone.
He walked the suitcase out the door and down the front steps, Georgia hot on his heels dragging the second largest bag. The first step nearly took her out.
“Give me that,” he demanded.
“Nope. I got it,” she panted.
He grabbed the handle from her and, a bag in each hand, walked to his car. He opened the trunk, stared back at the house at her mountain of bags, then said, “Okay, two options: One, strap half of this to the roof and hope it doesn’t take out a traffic cop. Or two, you pick your top… three.”
“Three?” Her laugh was sharp, brittle. “You really don’t know me at all.”
Jake smirked, closing the trunk with a deliberate click. “Oh, I know you. That’s the problem.”
The words lingered, heavier than any suitcase. Georgia’s jaw tightened—old ghosts of arguments past, heartbreak, and late-night regrets clouded her eyes.
She turned away, pretending to wrestle with another bag. “Fine. Any red carpet chaos? Your circus, your clowns.”
“Noted.”
Agreeing to leave the rest of the bags behind, Jake slid into the driver’s seat, eyes flicking to hers. “And if we run into zombies?”
She buckled up, a small, wry smile breaking through. “That’s why I brought the combat boots.”
He pulled onto the road, the tension humming just beneath the banter. “Still planning for every possible disaster, huh?”
She glanced out the window, voice light but layered. “Some disasters you can’t plan for. The rest? You overpack.”