Page 9 of Defending What is Mine

Chapter Five

Jack:Then—Last August

Why does this feel like a setup?

I glance over at the bags of food sitting in the passenger seat. That’s the question I’ve been asking since Mollie tricked me into the idea this afternoon.

Probably because it is a setup.

I said one thing. And it was nothing. Not really. Just casually mentioned how, now that all my brothers have someone special, they’re all busy with their lives—and I’m bored. (Alright, all of my brothers who I’m on speaking terms with. As for Leo—who the hell knows with him?) So, I complained about having nothing to do? How did we get from a small, nothing of a comment to this?

Walking around the car to retrieve the food, I grumble at my own foolishness. When I rap my knuckles against the screen door I grumble about Hank—and his too-sweet for her own good girlfriend. Then I grumble about this matchmaking scheme of hers. As Sam opens the door and blinks in surprised confusion, I grumble at myself for not setting the food on the step, ringing the bell, and running like hell.

An awful goddamn lot like a setup.

“Jack? Hey. What are you doing here?”

My instincts are screaming for me to make up an excuse—doesn’t matter how bad or flimsy—just lie and get the hell out of here. But she’s traded her jeans for a pair of shorts and my god, she’s a sight to behold.

“Hey,” I say back, lifting the bags of fried chicken and sides. “I’m not sure I know, exactly. Mollie said this was your favorite bad-for-you food. And, uh…” I look to the ground. “And somehow, she and Hank managed to convince me that showing up on your doorstep—unannounced—would be a great idea.” A nervous laugh slips out as I lightly kick at a loose stone on the concrete step. “To say I’m having second thoughts about it now would be an understatement.”

“Oh yeah? I can’t begin to imagine where she got an idea like that,” Sam says with a chuckle. “I mean the nerve…showing up to surprise someone with their favorite food…sheesh.” The way she laughs—it’s a small, personal thing, but tinged with mischief—I’d guess there’s an inside joke. One I am obviously on the outside of—or possibly the butt of.

She pushes the door open, still smiling. “Come on inside and get out of this heat.”

Surprised, I look up. “Really? You don’t think I’m an idiot for falling for the gag?”

Sam takes one of the bags and motions me inside. “Idiot? No, definitely not a word I’d use to describe you.” She points at the table. “You can set that down right over there.”

Eighty-twenty shot I’ll regret asking, but here goes.

“How would you describe me, then?”

I watch Sam’s cheeks flush at the question. And she doesn’t look up when she answers. Instead, she remains focused on the food as she unloads the contents of the bags onto the table. “Hmmm. Well, I guess I don’t know”—she stops and looks me in the eye—“be right back with plates and silverware.” But when she enters the kitchen she calls back. “If I had to pick one word? Adorable.”

My cheeks glow red-hot from the Cheshire-Cat-like smile spreading across my face.

While I wait for Sam, I stroll over to study the pictures on the wall. There’s a large portrait of Vanessa. Given the shimmering, electric-blue background, and the elbow-on-a-stump, chin-in-her-hand pose, it could only be a school picture. Then there’s a candid shot of all three women scrunched tightly together, smiling and happy—given the angle, I’d guess an impromptu selfie. And then I notice the one of her. It’s an older looking black and white photo of Sam. She’s younger—maybe still in her teens—but good God! She could give a cover model a run for their money. Stunning.

“See anything you like?” Sam whispers.

Startled, I spin on my heel and find her standing directly behind me, peering over my shoulder. “That one,” I say, thumbing at the black and white picture in the brass frame. “Tell me about that one.”

She smiles and rolls her eyes. “There’s not much to tell I’m afraid. That was a lifetime ago. Sometimes, it feels like even longer.”

“You look like a model.” Then. Now. Probably for the rest of her life.

“At the time…oh never mind. It’s silly,” Sam says with a dismissive wave at the picture. “Come on, let’s eat.”

“What?” I ask. “What’s silly?”

She glances back at the photo and shakes her head. “Back then, I actually thought that might be my future. Becoming a model, I mean.” She walks to the table and sets three places, complete with plates and silverware and napkins. “But what does anyone know about life at sixteen? You know?”

“Unless that picture has been heavily Photoshopped”—I turn back for a final look—“I think you were on the right track. You look stunning.”

“Looked,” Sam corrects me through a smile. “I’m not sixteen anymore.”

“You aren’t sixty, either. And hell, even if you were, from where I’m standing, I’d say you’ve still got what it takes.”

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