Page 23 of Jack

“This is my friend Axel Mulligan, from Alaska,” Oaken said. “And his girlfriend, Flynn.”

Jack shook hands. Then Axel turned to Oaken. “Later.” He walked away.

Oaken turned to Jack. “So glad you could make it for the wedding.” Oaken glanced at Brontë. “Boo was worried you’d be tied up with a case.”

Jack gave him a smile, his throat too tight. Brontë grinned up at him. Okay, maybe he didn’t have to constantly listen to the guilt. “Just finished one. But it’s not a case, really. I’m not a PI.”

Oaken gave him a blank look. “Oh.”

“I hunt for missing people. I follow leads and unearth information and hand it over to the right authorities.” He gave them a wry smile. “Usually without trouble.”

“Oh, right,” Brontë said, laughing. “Whatever. You’re like a basset hound. Trouble is like a steak.”

Oaken grinned.

“I thinkbasset houndmight be a little strong, sis.” But okay, the laughter made him breathe. And kept his gaze from drifting over to Harper again.

Maybe he was like a dog with a bone.

“Jack wrote a book about his first find. It was made into a movie. Now he’s famous.”

“Not famous.”

“A super sleuth.”

“No. I just . . . listen. And people tell me things. And most of the time, it’s because they have a problem.”

“That yousolve,” Brontë said.

“Only if there’s a reward involved.”

She gave a huff.

“I’m not the savior you think I am. Never was.” He made a face, feeling the heat in it.

She rolled her eyes. “Tell that to any of my friends. They all fell under a spell when you walked into the room.”

Nowherolled his eyes. She turned to Oaken. “It didn’t help that he was the one who found me when I was lost.”

“I remember the story,” Oaken said, considering him.

“Yeah. It was his face I saw when I climbed out of the sleeping bag. And then he went on to save some Boy Scout two years later. That time, he made the news, local and statewide. Probably what launched his itch to find missing people.”

Her words found a place, warmed him. “First, the kid was a Cub Scout, and that was pure luck. And second, to survive, you have to be smart. Like Brontë was, to dig a hole, climb into a sleeping bag, and stay put. Clearly she knew how to take care of herself.”

Brontë stared at him, a tiny frown playing over her face.

He smiled at her, shrugged. “You did real good, Brontë.”

“You did too.”

He nodded, glanced at Steinbeck, who’d wandered over to the serving bar with Doyle. He’d picked up a fancy drink from a server who’d walked by.

Brontë stepped up and put her arms around Jack’s neck. “It’s okay to call me Boo.”

Right. “Sorry, sis,” he said, his arm around her.

“I forgive you,” she whispered back.

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