Page 18 of A Whisper of Summer Magic

Am I really thinking of walking away?

It sounded so stupid. Who walked away from a pile of money, flying business class and staying in five-star hotels?

But she looked at Jackson, grinning and sitting down across from her. One hand already stroked Whiskey’s head.

“You look like an ad for living a life of deep content.”

He leaned back, propped his feet up on Jessica’s table, and Meghan hid her wince—this was outdoor furniture for the screened-in fence, and if she moved in here, it would be her furniture, her home and their compromised rules.

“I’ve been deeply blessed,” Jackson said, still smiling though his expression was a bit quizzical. “My mom was an awesome mom, my grandparents loving. We lived in a beautiful spot, and when my granddad was injured and couldn’t work anymore, we were able to take care of him, and he recovered. I served my country and came home whole and now serve the community where I grew up and work with an awesome team. What’s to complain about?”

“Nothing,” she said, wishing she could view her life in such simple terms. Maybe she could if she’d just stop overthinking it all.

“Now if I could just convince Rustin to have a karaoke night on the deck bar.” He laughed and reached for an apple. “He’s shutting me down hard on that one. Hard no, but I can be persuasive and persistent.” He bit into the apple, and Meghan forgot how to breathe as she watched him chew.

“Drink up. You’re safe. I didn’t use the book. This is a spice packet that Jessica made for my mom and Rustin’s mom to help with inflammation, something called yellow milk. She makes a small cup at night with a nondairy milk, and her movement and range of motion has really improved. I saw a labeled jar of it in Jessica’s spice rack—impressively large by the way—so I helped myself. There are also these collection of shots in the fridge, with health benefits listed. I feel like if I shoot one, I’ll be able to levitate.”

“I’d love a shot of tequila, but I doubt that’s what she has in there. She’s messing around with juices and spices geared for health not debauchery.”

“Disappointing.” Jackson picked up the book, opened it randomly. “I believe alcohol has inflammatory properties.”

“You are not my jailer or my trainer.” She stink-eyed him, though she didn’t feel like having her usual glass or wine or cocktail to wind down the day.

She wasn’t stressed. Her mind wasn’t racing with what she still had on her to-do list.

She’d deliberately not brought work for her weekend here, and since it was a Saturday, not a Sunday afternoon where she usually dove back into work, she was consciously not going to think about the reading she had to do or the briefs she needed to outline.

She was bracing herself for when Jackson would take off. It had gone beyond the twenty-four hours where she might have complications of a concussion, though other than a headache, she’d had no symptoms.

“Did you always want to be a firefighter?”

“I thought about personal training,” Jackson said, pausing in his perusal of the book. “One of my buddies from the army has a gym—well two actually—in Charlotte and Durham. And I thought about getting certified for a hot minute, but I wanted to come home, be close to family and not live in the city or have a horrendous commute, and while I like helping people a lot, I felt like becoming a personal trainer was too…”

“Personal?” She quirked her brow at him. “You’d be hit on a lot.”

“Thank you?”

“Yeah, tough problem to have,” Meghan said easily, but then looking at him—hair tousled and longer than conventional, streaky blond, tall, cut body oozing grace and athleticism, Nordic wide cheekbones, lips sensuously full, and his thick darker brows framing those beautiful light blues eyes, and add in the granite jaw, he was stop traffic or walk back into the bar to follow him gorgeous.

And he didn’t seem to care about any of that.

“Tell me about the book.” Jackson leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling down.

Her impulse was to dodge his question, but what the heck—Chloe had embraced the book. Jessica had avoided it, using it only at Chloe’s insistence, and she and Storm were all but joined at the hip, and her sister had never seemed happier and more energized and fulfilled. Sarah, as always, floated above family drama, but the night G. Millie had died, Sarah had expressed an interest in moving on and finding love again.

“What have you heard?”

“Can’t trust secondhand information.”

“I don’t think I’m a firsthand source,” she said, but her curiosity had been more than piqued by discovering the book among the berry patch—and when she counted that she was thinking about making some specialty jams to sell in the nursery store, she could practically hear the music from theTwilight ZoneTV series.

“Chloe found the book in G. Millie’s curbside mini library. She asked Rustin to teach her a few recipes, which he did by standing back and bossing but not lifting a finger to help.”

“So, is that part of the rules? One person making it?”

“It’s calledSouthern Love Spells. If there’s a touch of magic—and I can’t believe I’m uttering those words—I’m not sure there are rules.”

“There are always rules.” Jackson rubbed his hands together.

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