Page 90 of Regards, Mia

I’m not upset, but her comment grates on my nerves, and now Iama little upset, although I would never give her the satisfaction of seeing it.

I’m trying to come up with a response when Jay appears at my shoulder, his hand a reassuring presence at my lower back.

“You ready, ShortCake?” he asks. “Our car is here.”

We say one last goodbye, and when we leave the lobby and settle into the back seats of a Ford Explorer, I let out a long sigh of relief. “Thank God that’s over.”

Jay runs a hand through his hair. It’s long and loose, the thick strands still damp from his shower. “I think I might take up golf,” he says. “You think I should get a membership at Emerald Hills?”

I smile and pull out my phone, checking my messages. I can’t imagine Jay swinging a golf club at the country club, but now thatmy brain goes there, it is an enticing image. Those tight- fitting golf pants would look excellent on him.

Jay leans over and cups my cheek, pulling me close. “You have the sexiest grin on your face right now,” he says, kissing me.

I lower my phone and kiss him back before realizing, we don’t have to do this anymore. We are officially done with our act for the weekend. We can go back to being client and bodyguard or whatever it is we were before Serenade Island.

I’m not sure what we will be when we get home. Not sure what I want. But at least I won’t have to make a decision right away. When we get back home, Jay will come to my house. We will have an early dinner, and if he insists on staying the night to protect me, I will talk him into doing it from my bed instead of the couch.

We are almost to the airport when I remember to check my messages. There are two from Jordan, both of them from early this morning while Jay and I were languishing in bed on our last few hours of vacation.

There’s urgent news on the Mattson case, and he wants me to call as soon as possible. Elena isn’t due to confront Mattson until I get back, so nothing could have gone wrong there.

When I try to call him, it goes straight to voicemail. I frown and hang up. Jordan’s usually more straightforward. He’s not one to leave me guessing, but his texts are cryptic and send a shiver of anxiety down my spine.

“Everything okay?” Jay asks, reaching for my hand.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “I can’t reach my boss and he said he had some news.”

“Hope it’s good news,” Jay says, giving my hand a squeeze.

Me too.I smile absently, my mind already focused on home and what I will need to do to put Mattson away. Now that Max’s wedding is over—he and Samantha are already on a plane to Paris—I can concentrate all my energy on my job again.

Jay squeezes my thigh. “Winston Churchill said, ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going’.”

His words fill me with confidence. Jay is so sure of me, so convinced that I’m smart and capable, that it’s easy to believe it's true. Of course, Iknowit's true, I’m excellent at my job, but having someone believe in me makes a difference.

After spending the entire weekend fending off passive-aggressive comments of disapproval dished out by my mother, it’s nice not to have to hold up a shield.

A glimmer of happiness shines in my heart, spreading out through my chest. Jay is my shield, my protection.

When we get to the airport, I try Jordan again while we wait to board. I leave another voicemail, but by the time we have to turn our phones on to Airplane mode, I haven’t heard back from him.

There’s nothing I can do until we land, so I try to forget about it for the next few hours. Jay makes it easy. He asks me questions and listens to the answers as if I’m the most interesting person he’s ever known.

He asks me if I remember my first kiss and doesn’t judge when I admit it was my third cousin once-removed who did the honors. If only I hadn’t judged him that first night we met, things would have been different from the start.

We could have skipped over pretend and gone straight to couple. But I wouldn’t have been ready to be a couple with Jay then. I don’t know that I’m ready now.

“Favorite flavor of ice cream?” he asks, lacing our fingers together.

“Pistachio.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That’s not a flavor,” he says.

The memory of cold creamy sweetness floods my mind. In the summer of my sophomore year in college abroad in Italy, where pistachio was the most popular gelato.

“Have you been to Italy?” I ask.

“I haven’t been anywhere in Europe.”

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